Needs
by ChickenSoupForDinner
Summary: Everyone has needs that must be met. Slash and a case fic.
1. A Problem

I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other works (Twin Peaks, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) I reference in this fanfic.

This is based on me wondering how an asexual Sherlock would end up sleeping with John.

Rated M for later chapters.

Sherlock was agitated. He was alone because John was sleeping over at his girlfriend's place, again. The apartment was completely silent, the only ambient sound coming from the sirens of emergency vehicles across the city. The absence of John's snores through the wall unnerved Sherlock. He found the steady rhythm comforting. Ever since he had moved in with John he hated to be alone for long periods of time, which was strange as he usually couldn't stand company. He still found the rest of humanity as dull as ever, but he found he liked having a companion around. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he would still be able to function if John wasn't around, he was miserable without him.

And now John had a girlfriend. A girlfriend who was taking up a lot of his time. What if they got married and had children? What if they moved somewhere far away? What if she got sick and needed to be taken care of? John would not have time for Sherlock anymore. Something had to be done.

The woman, Sherlock had not bothered to learn her name as he deemed it unimportant, obviously offered John something he did not. That was the only explanation for why he kept going back there. John liked Sherlock, he was sure of it, but apparently he needed the company of other people as well. And what she offered was important enough to John to keep him there all night. What could they be doing? She was nice enough, with a good heart, but missing some furniture upstairs in Sherlock's opinion. That was not unusual, as he thought that most people be barely above apes in their cognitive abilities. Sherlock had ruled out conversation. If John needed intelligent conversation he could just stay home. It was ludicrous to think that he could talk for hours with someone that dull.

Then the painfully obvious hit him. They were having sex. Sherlock often forgot that normal people tried to do this as much as possible. As much as he admired John, it depressed him to think the man was still a slave to his primal urges. When would people evolve?

John got home the next morning to find Sherlock sitting in an arm chair facing the door with a cup of tea in his hand waiting for him. Sherlock stared intently at John. John tried to subtly hide the hickies on his neck inside his collar. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't notice and pass comment.

"'Morning," said John nonchalantly as he went into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea.

"John, what happens to you if you abstain from sex?" Sherlock asked, his clear voice ringing across the room.

John stared at him bewildered. Sherlock had his odd moments, but this was awkward even for him. "Why? Thinking of giving it up yourself?" He spoke quietly, hoping to God the landlady did not hear them. He shut the door just to be safe.

"I haven't had sex in over three years, it distracts from my work, or rather trying to please my partners does."

John was surprised for a moment, but then figured if Sherlock did not eat on a case because food slowed him down; giving up sex seemed to be the next logical step. John smiled at the thought of Sherlock on a date, how awkward it would be and how abruptly he would end it, and then remembered how Sgt. Donovan seemed to have a personal grudge against him.

"Was Sgt, Donovan one of those partners?" asked John. "It explains why she dislikes you so much if you chucked her out to focus on your work."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. He had not expected John to make the connection, but then again John was above average, if he was a dull as the rest of humanity Sherlock would not be worried about spending time with him. "Yes, she took is rather badly when I withdrew my interest, but she turned out to be quite boring in the end. But that is not the point. What would happen to you if you were to abstain from sex?"

John sipped his tea, still trying to avoid the question. He did not feel like discussing his sex life with Sherlock. It made him feel a mixture of wrongness or guilt, it was far too awkward. But he could try and defect the question. "What makes you think I have gone long periods of time without it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if John had asked a question with the most obvious answer in the world. "You were in the armed forces and unless you like men, which I assume you don't as you are currently seeing that woman, you went for periods of time when there were not women around. So either you abstained from sex or had sex with men. I deduce that you abstained. Which is it and what were the results?"

John went bright red. There was obviously no getting around this. For some reason Sherlock was determined to know how abstinence affected normal people. "I get angry, and frustrated, and soon any woman or anyone with slightly feminine features that I see turns me on and I am generally frustrated. It's not fun."

"Even with regular masturbation?" Sherlock asked in such a matter of fact way that John choked on his tea.

"That helps a little," he mumbled and turned away scarlet. He liked to think that what went on between him and his right hand was a private matter.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his hands together, thinking and looking at the ceiling. "So you feel that regular sex is important for you to live a happy and fulfilled life?"

"Yes," John muttered. What was with Sherlock this morning? Why the interest in his sex life. Or sex in general, he never seemed to think about it before. In future he would have to make sure he only got hickies in places that were covered when he was fully clothed. When he could finally look at Sherlock again he saw the other man still thoughtfully looking at the ceiling. John fled to his bedroom before Sherlock remembered any other awkward questions he wanted to ask.

John was out on a date and Sherlock sat in the flat alone. He had not had a case in a week, and would be going a bit crazy right now if he did not have the problem of John to occupy him. He did not like how John disappeared to go and spend time with that woman. John and never had her stay the night in the flat, probably too embarrassed by some of Sherlock's eccentricities and was afraid they would drive his potential mate away. Apparently going on a date with them and then nearly getting them murdered meant he was bad company. Sherlock did not see what the big deal was; it would probably be the most memorable first date of their lives. They were horribly ungrateful.

It angered him that John didn't seem to need him as much as he needed John. John did require him to some extent. Without Sherlock, John would be a pathetic limping veteran with no purpose probably living out the rest of his life watching day time TV and sitting on benches feeding ducks. The thought that if John left Sherlock and went back to a completely normal life then John would probably get him limp back pleased Sherlock; he could not suppress a smile. They needed each other and would always be near each other was comforting. But Sherlock did not like to share. As much as he hated to admit it he loved attention, and needed attention from John. John wasn't ignoring him, but he was giving his attention to someone else as well.

Sherlock could not actively break them up, John would never forgive him and it would strain their relationship. And he did not feel like he could do something like that to deliberately hurt John. But if it fell apart on its own, Sherlock could try and make sure John never dated another girl like that again. He had a couple of plans, and was not sure they would work. But there had been encouraging signs that he might be able to put a few of them into play.

Rain fell heavily on the streets of London and Sherlock was alone in the flat with his violin. He was trying to resonate the porcelain of the tea cup in front of him, but with little success. He did this when John was out because John generally yelled about the noise and threw things at him. To most people, the noise he was making was unpleasant rather than purposeful. He wondered how they coped with their limited intellect.

There were some thuds outside and Sherlock was startled when John strode through the door, soaked and miserable. The state of his clothes and the amount of muck on his shoes suggested he had been walking for a long time. Without saying a word he went straight to his room and locked the door. He was upset about something. Sherlock was baffled as to the cause. He had seemed so happy earlier that day. Sherlock played his violin for about fifteen minutes more, but did not get a response from John. This was unusual. He was either dead or really upset. Sherlock put down the instrument and went to his room. He turned off the light and lay awake listening to any sound that might be coming from John's room. He stayed awake for what seemed like hours and when he finally dozed off he had not hear the light snores that meant John had gone to sleep.


	2. The Plot Thickens

I don't own Sherlock, sadly. And I will try and update this every 2-3 days as I have it mostly typed out already. I hope you like it and I don't fail at writing mysteries.

It will get more mysterious I promise.

It was a new case, and Sherlock hoped it would lift John from his depression. The woman he had been seeing, possibly someone called Sarah, had gotten a job offer as a prestigious hospital in the United States and had left the country. John was still sulking over her departure and did not have his usual happy go lucky attitude. John did everything mechanically and without any emotion. He didn't even complain when Sherlock asked him to do insane and difficult tasks that were completely out of his way. For example, Sherlock had asked him to drop everything he was doing and go to a store on the other side of London just to get a brand of soap he liked, and John had only sighed before going out. He usually put up a bit of a fight before leaving. Sherlock liked seeing how long he would protest before giving in.

But today was different: they had a case! The government had left another briefcase full of sensitive documents on a train and was now being blackmailed. Sherlock had been asked to find out who had done it. It was a new case, and a tricky one. He almost hoped Moriarty was behind it. They had absolutely no leads!

He barged into John's room without knocking. "Get up, John, we have a case!" he nearly sang and he bounced across to the widow to open the curtains. John groaned. "Get up, John! For Queen and country and whatever else you feel loyal to, we have a case."

John sat up and looked blearily at Sherlock. He did not even complain that Sherlock had barged into his room. Sherlock's face fell and he sat on the edge of the bed looking at John. "I know she left you and you are hurt or whatever negative emotion describes what you are feeling right now, but you cannot spend the rest of your days moping about your room. Your prolonged sour attitude is unreasonable and depressing. Now get up, get dressed, and come with me. We have a case to solve!"

John got up and shuffled to the dresser. He was obviously not over this stupid woman. His attitude was unbearable and he was ignoring Sherlock along with the rest of the world. He had completely checked out. Sherlock had to get him interested in life again. He was already formulating a plan as they left.

The day had raised John's spirits and had included them having to chase down a suspect who was trying to flee on a horse. Sherlock really enjoyed the intellectual puzzles, while John seemed to enjoy the fighting and chasing. They made a good team. They had leapt from roof top to trash can and finial John had tackled the man off his horse bringing the chase to a sudden end. He has a few minor cuts and bruises, but John smiled. This was the first improvement Sherlock had seen in his friend's demeanor in a long time.

As they sat at the station, waiting to make a statement, Sherlock had pulled DI Lestrade aside. He did not like asking people for advice, and there were few people he talked to if he could help it. Mrs. Hudson, John, Molly, and DI Lestrade were the only people on the list. And he hardly ever asked them he really needed to know. He just knew that being an arrogant know-it-all usually got on people's nerves and pretending that he needed their knowledge softened their opinions of him. He could not help it if he was brilliant. This time he really did need help. He needed to know what cheered up normal men like John. Obvious he did not find solving cases quite as thrilling and Sherlock.

He took Lestrade aside and presented his problem in a low voice so no one could overhear them. Lestrade was flattered and was happy to give Sherlock a little advice. He seemed to like John and was troubled to see him so lifeless. Sherlock thought the advice was sound and well meaning, but he hoped he would not have to act on it. It would be a most awkward incident. He hoped that John would cheer up on his own.

John slowly began, an inch at a time, to come back into the world. He would laugh at the occasional joke, remembered to do the shopping again, they had been living off of take-out and pickled vegetables, and even mounted a small protest when Sherlock told him to go back to the shops because he had changed his mind about what he wanted for dinner. But John still spent most of his time staring out the window and sighing. He was obviously still spending most of his time thinking about her.

They were walking back to the flat one night a couple days after the blackmailing case had been solved, an idiot had gotten lucky, John back to his depressed silence, when Sherlock took them down a side street that they had never been down before. Things had gotten desperate. "John, I have been told that this is the way to help a man get over a broken heart." He pulled out a bunch of notes and handed them to John. "We are going to have some common, manly fun tonight, and see if it cheers you up."

John looked curiously at Sherlock. He hoped he was not going to a checkers club, a manlier alternative to the chess place Sherlock had taken him to earlier that week. He hated chess, but as Sherlock liked a battle of wits he found it fun. John had lost five games without interest. But the streets they were walking down were getting filthier and filthier. Boxing perhaps, but Sherlock was really going on a limb this time to try and get him out of him slump. Either Sherlock really cared about him or hated being ignored.

They stopped in front of a blank door with a neon sign above it flashing "Girls, Girls, Girls". A bald, thickset man stood in front of the door. Sherlock slipped him twenty pounds and he stepped away from the door. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and led him into the dimly lit strip club. Loud music filled the room and naked girls in high heels were everywhere, posing and dancing for the naked men. Sherlock was distinctly uncomfortable, John could feel his fingers digging into his arm, but he persevered. They came to a red leather couch in front of a low stage where three girls were posing and gyrating. Sherlock sat them down and inwardly winced when he realized his coat was sticking to the couch ever so slightly when he moved. He would have to burn it later. John took off his coat and casually tossed it to Sherlock as it was warm in the club, but Sherlock didn't even remove his scarf and gloves. He sat rigidly strait and seemed to be afraid that he would catch something off the seat. A tan girl with bleached blonde hair came by with a tray of beers and Sherlock bought one which he handed to John. John was an old fashioned Englishman when it came to his love of beer. Sherlock looked around the room; there were girls of every shape, size, and color here and they were all naked. He turned to John to see if any of this was having an effect on the man. John sipped his beer and looked around, obviously interested. His eyes moved from girl to girl and then landed on Sherlock. He smiled. Sherlock took this to be a sign of thanks. Sherlock nodded and continued watching John. He noticed that John was staring at a tall and painfully skinny redhead, his eyes following her as the girl roved around the room. Sherlock caught her eye and motioned for her to come over with a bill in his hand.

"Big spender, eh," she purred into Sherlock's ear. "I am going to treat you well tonight, big daddy."

A look of disgust briefly crossed Sherlock's face but he controlled himself. "No, I need you to cheer up my friend." He pointed at John who was still staring at the redhead, a little disappointed she had gone to Sherlock. "His girlfriend left him and I was hoping you could wiggle your breasts at him until he feels better or something. Whatever usually works."

The girl looked surprised and confused for a moment before smiling. "Whatever you want, sweetie." She turned to John. "Your friend just bought you a dance, what do ya say?"

John turned to look at Sherlock, who was now trying to explain to some strippers that he was uninterested in their services and was just here with a friend; they looked distinctly offended, and smiled. Sherlock may be odd, but he was a good friend.

The next day, John was in better spirits as they walked to a café to get some lunch. Sherlock was not wearing his usual coat and scarf. They were in the wash. He had talking himself out of burning them after they left that grimy strip club and convinced himself that after three heavy duty washed with lots of soap they would be perfectly wearable again. No germs would survive that many washes on hot. He would do research next time and find a place without sticky seats if John ever got depressed again. He was in a red jumper, a gray scarf his mother had knitted for him, and wore tan camel-skin gloves. It was not his best look but John did not seem to care that much, not that John ever cared what people wore. John was wearing the same beige and khaki colors that he always seemed to incorporate into his outfits. If he had had any sense of fashion before, the military had beaten it out of him. Pity. They had gotten home around four last night with Sherlock supporting a very inebriated John who could no longer tell that he had left the club and was groped Sherlock instead. Sherlock had dumped him on the bed and removed his shoes before leaving him to sleep it off. John did not mention it the next morning and Sherlock assumed he had been too drunk to remember and didn't mention it.

They both had bags under their eyes from the late night and John was nursing a bad hangover, but he was happier and more talkative than he had been in weeks. Sherlock deemed the mission a success. They were going out to breakfast because John was too ill to cook, and Sherlock hadn't made more than toast since John moved in.

It was a crisp morning and even if Sherlock was dressed in clothing he found to be terrible and repulsive, he would have to buy more than one coat and scarf, it was worth it to have his friend back. John would not be dating for a while and in the meantime he and Sherlock could have fun together again. He had missed John's open mouthed awe at his deductive skills. Genius needed an audience. He saw a young man with flowing hair and jeans that fitted him a little too well and sighed. He did not want sex, but he still liked it when people tried to pick him up. It was an ego boost rooted in his vanity, he knew this, but he like to know he was attractive all the same. It saddened him a little to know he wouldn't get a look in dressed like this. As if to prove this the young man gave him the once over and walked by uninterested. John, much to Sherlock's surprise, eyed the man as he walked past and even turned back for a moment to glance at the man again. John caught Sherlock watching him.

"Just seeing what bus that was," John explained, looking ahead again in an unnaturally determined way.

Sherlock said nothing; he knew what he had seen. He was certain of it a few blocks later when John repeated the action as a pretty brunette passed. This was unexpected.

They were at the morgue looking at a body. Sherlock examined the finger nails, noticing how they were torn. The victim had struggled but she had not struggled with her attacker. It seemed she tried to scratch a hole on the floor from the amount of wood splinters under her finger nails. The victim had been horribly tortured and dumped in the Thames. Her body had been preserved in plastic wrapping, but as the police had no leads and the public had been shocked by the severity of the crime, D.I. Lestrade had the whole force on the case and had called in Sherlock for help. The call had come in five minutes ago. Sherlock had been in the morgue for over an hour. He liked Molly Hooper. She was always ready to help and her obvious though fruitless flirting was always a boost to Sherlock's day. Not that he would ever show it, but the fact that he could make her blush and giggle when he walked into the room endeared her to him. She was a person he did not find completely annoying; unless she was trying to get his attention while he was working.

"Poor girl, what sort of sick bastard do you think could have done this too her?" Molly asked peering over Sherlock's shoulder and looking down at the corpse. He could feel her breath on his neck; this was an unwelcome invasion of his personal space.

"Tweezers, please, Molly," he commanded in an annoyed tone that clearly told her to stop talking. He had found something interesting on her ring finger. Molly shut up immediately and hurried across the room to find a pair.

John gave Sherlock a disapproving look. "You didn't have to be so rude."

Sherlock took the tweezers without saying "thank you" and stuck them under the nail. "Someone shoved a foreign object under the nail; I am trying to retrieve it." He grabbed it and slowly removed a small corner of a plastic card from under her nail. "Curious."

"Pardon?" asked John who was trying to see what Sherlock had removed. Sherlock examined it under his magnifying glass.

"The corner of a card, probably a credit card, that somehow ended up under her finger nail." He dropped it into a bad that Molly was holding out for him. "Maybe we can find out what kind of card it is and use that to narrow down our pool of suspects ."

They were all silent for a while, and then John spoke. "It is the same color as Halifax bank cards. Harriet has one and it is almost the same color. Maybe you should compare the two."

Sherlock and Molly stared at John. Neither of them had expected this wealth of information from John, and if he was right, he had gotten a lot of the legwork out of the way for Sherlock.

Molly beamed at him. "It looks like Sherlock here isn't the only brilliant detective in the room."

John smiled back at her. "Well, I have my moments," he said with false modesty. Their held each other's gaze for a moment. "And we wouldn't have found it if you hadn't preserved the body so well and saved the evidence." Molly blushed.

Sherlock was disgusted. He managed to quash the feeling before turning to Molly. "Thank you. If you could continue to keep the body and evidence well preserved until me and Watson come back, that would be fantastic. John, let's go find that bank of yours."

He swept out the room and John hurried to follow him.

"Shall I inform D.I. Lestrade of what you have found?" Molly called after them.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied before walking out the building.

He was going at a brisk pace and John had to jog a little to keep up. Damn his long legs. "What's up with you?" John asked. Sherlock never called him Watson.

"Do you have to make does eyes are Ms. Hooper?" Sherlock asked, not breaking his stride.

John was offended. "She flirts with you all the time and you never show any interest, why do you care what I do?"

"Leave her alone, it's unprofessional. Do you use your sister's bank card lot?"

Sherlock was deflecting, but John did not feel like arguing and jogging at the same time. "When I first came back from Afghanistan. She set me up a bank account for free with the bank that she works for, I had no cash on me when I got out."

Sherlock snorted. This annoyed John. "Anyway, are you going to act like that every time I smile at a girl-"

"Or man," Sherlock muttered.

John stopped for a second surprised, how did . . . never mind. He ran to catch up. "The point is it is none of your business and I have needs!"

Sherlock stopped and John nearly ran into him. Sherlock was looking at John, his piercing blue eyes seeming to see through him, and thinking hard. John could not read his face but knew he was being scrutinized and that Sherlock was trying to make a decision about him. Without a word Sherlock began walking back to the flat again. John stood there for a moment wondering what had just happened.

Sherlock was sitting in the apartment, alone, again. He had been going over the case files. The girl had turned out to be a prostitute, but a high class one, which made the crime even more unusual. Sherlock felt like something obvious was staring him in the face, but he could not think what.

He couldn't think at all.

Watson was out again. He had met a pretty blonde girl earlier that day and they had arranged to meet for drinks in the evening. Sherlock hoped he would not spend the night with her; the thought that he was being entertained by someone else was enraging. Sherlock could not focus on his work because he was too busy wondering why John was not at home with him, what he was doing, and how he could possibly find a girl like that more interesting than him. It was true that Sherlock made most of the breakthroughs, but talking aloud to John and hearing John's bad ideas helped somehow.

Sherlock got up and went to the window. He felt dizzy, his only food for the past three days had been tea. He knew he would have to cave and eat something soon, but he did not want to risk his mental faculties when he was trying so hard to make a break through. He envied how John could put the case out of his mind for an evening and be distracted by some abnormally thin idiot. Sherlock could not turn off his brain like that. Nor would he ever want to. He might miss something. Lack of sleep was an unfortunate side effect.

John walked through the door smelling of beer and cigarettes and looking a bit disappointed.

"No luck with your date then?" Sherlock asked derisively.

John looked angry for a moment and then worried as he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's chest through his partially buttoned silk pajama top. He could see Sherlock's ribs. "Have you eaten today?"

"No," Sherlock said grumpily, looking back out the window for a moment before striding across the room. "It slows me down," he said angrily, "and I can't afford to be slowed down, and I am missing something but I can't figure out what! It is driving me mad!" Maybe if he hadn't been distracted by John flirting with Molly he would have seen it. But he would never admit that had distracted him.

He gripped and armchair angrily and took a moment to compose himself. "And you can't go out anymore. I think better when you are here. I need you here."

John looked at the disheveled, red eyed man in front of him and sat himself down on the sofa with a sigh. "I know this is frustrating but I have needs. Do be quite honest, I haven't had sex since Sarah left and it is beginning to drive me mad." He looked at Sherlock who was studying him as if trying to solve a problem. "You need to solve a case, and I need a good shag, neither of us are at our best right now. Welcome to the club of frustrated men, we have a vast membership."

Sherlock looked at him without speaking for a moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. "What if I could help you meet your needs?"

John looked up in disbelief, and incredulous smile forming on his lips. "What?"

Sherlock gave his one of those condescending do-I-really-need-to-explain-this-to-you looks. "You need to have intercourse, I need you around. You like men, as well as women, and from the ones I have seen you eyeing, I am your type. If we pair up with each other both our problems are solved. It is logical."

John could not believe what he was hearing. "You want to sleep with me? I didn't even think you liked sex, you gave it up for your work."

"It is an enjoyable form of exercise; I just don't find it as life changing as the rest of the human race seems to." Sherlock was studying him now, trying to figure out his reaction. John had to admit this was the least romantic proposal he had ever received, but then again if Sherlock had presented him with flowers he would have thought him drunk or on drugs. Sherlock was probably the least romantic or sensitive person he knew.

"I suppose you also have a Plan B?" John was stalling for time and he tried to make up his mind. He had not been expecting this.

"I'll call up an expensive and skilled prostitute to sort you out and then we get back to work."

John wondered how Sherlock knew or such a person. It was strange to think of Sherlock picking up a hooker, but he had never seemed to discriminate against any group in society. As with the homeless population he helped them out and then got help in return. Sherlock may be vain and stuck up at times, but he judged people solely on their abilities nothing else. It was something John liked about him. But the idea of sex with Sherlock was strange. He was physically attractive, but he so logical, often cold and lacked social skills. John imagined that he would just be an awkward tangle of limbs in bed and the mechanical motions of a robot.

"How do I know that you are any good? There is such a thing as bad sex." He did not want to agree to an eternity of that.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "The fact that most of the human race is a slave to the sex drive confused me for the longest time. In my effort to understand why, I went to a variety of experts in the subject, or prostitutes, to learn everything I could about it including how to have "good sex" as you call it. While I still did not understand the importance it has to other people, I have been told that I am quite the talented lover."

John was still trying to take all this in. Sherlock had been to escorts, got them to teach him the secrets of sex, found it boring, but was now offering to have sex with him. Not for the first time he wondered if Sherlock was mad. What was he getting out of this if sex was merely fun exercise? Then he remembered something Sgt. Donovan had said.

"So you want to get my rocks off, as it were, so I will help you get your rocks off solving crimes?" John asked, just to make sure he understood the situation.

"Yes, I need you to help me, John, and this isn't an offer I have made to any other person." Sherlock walked over to John, tilted his chin up, and kissed in such a way that made John see stars. He parted his lips slightly and Sherlock slipped his tongue between them. John had never had someone do _that_ with their tongue before. Too soon Sherlock pulled away and slipped a business card into John's hand. "Either call me or call them. And if you call them, tell Susie to put it on my tab. But please, sort yourself out soon. I need you on this case with me."

With that Sherlock walked into his room and shut the door. John sat on the couch for a long time looking at the card in his hand and trying to figure out what had just happened.


	3. Feelings for M

Again, I own nothing. I hope you enjoy!

The next morning Sherlock was in a good mood. The annual police report that summarized all their investigations came out today. He liked to use this to keep score. He would go through the whole thing and compare his success rate, 100%, with the police department's success rate, between 50% and 80%, and then go through all of their unsolved cases for that year and try to solve them himself. Tomorrow, or later this evening he would turn up in DI Lestrade's office with his solutions, or ideas that would point them in the right direction if he felt the case was beneath him, and Lestrade would thank him with a mixture of gratitude and exasperation. Sherlock had stolen these reports for two years in a row, they were usually not sent to civilians, but the third year after he started doing this he woke up one morning to find the report on his doormat with a note from Lestrade.

It seems pointless to try and stop you stealing this, I expect you in my office tomorrow morning, 9am sharp, with results.

Lestrade was a good person; he had become a police officer because he wanted to make London a better place. He consulted with Sherlock because he knew Sherlock could help him with his mission. Most of the other officers were insulted when he started hiring a "consulting detective", but Lestrade did not care, he thought that it was everyone's civic duty to band together to make the world a better place, and if this odd ball who hung out in the morgue could get dangerous criminals off the street, then why not use him.

Sherlock liked Lestrade because he respected Sherlock's abilities. He had actually been flattered to have been asked to consult on cases, though he would never admit this to anyone, and always delivered results. He hoped he would be able to deliver his findings by this afternoon. Sally was never at the station that day the report came out, and was often late to work the next day. Sherlock liked to avoid her if possible, and she made no excuses to see him more than she had to. When asked why she took this say off, she claimed it was because she wanted a short break after a year of solid police work, but she made no secret that she hated it when Sherlock did their police work for them. She had once said that the sight of him prancing around like God's Gift to Policemen made her want to vomit. But she could argue against his effectiveness, and was forced to put up with him as long as she was under Lestrade.

He sat down with a cup of tea and a piece of toast and before he opened the report. His lack of food had begun to affect his cognitive abilities, so he decided to have a small breakfast and try and relax for a short time in an effort to restore his mental state. Though he was technically working, these cases were usually so open and shut to him that he did not spend an inordinate amount of mental energy. In all the years that Sherlock had been solving mysteries, since he was a teenager, there was only one time he had failed. That case still haunted him some nights, but one out of over a thousand was not bad, he reminded himself.

Watson walked into the room yawning wearing only a robe and pajama pants, he still had sleep in his eyes and was not yet fully awake. "Good morning, John," Sherlock said cheerfully. John merely grunted in response. It was too early to be cheery. Sherlock was undeterred. His single mindedness could be endearing or annoying depending on the time of day. "It's police report day!"

John poured himself a cup of tea look at Sherlock who was grinning as he waved a large binder at John. John had no idea what was going on and had been surprised to find tea already in the pot; Sherlock never did anything for breakfast. John guessed that "police report day" was important for some reason as he put some bread in the toaster, and pulled out a frying pan and a carton of eggs. He put a knob of butter in the pan and watched as it melted and bubbled. "Any eggs for you?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock replied. He had opened the binder and was reading the first page.

"Given up on the girl in morgue, have you?" John asked. Sherlock had been so focused on that case in so long, and in such a bad mood about it, that it was strange to see him happy and focused on something else.

Sherlock shot him a steely glare. "I never give up on a case," he said flatly. "I am just taking a break for police report day, we will go to the bank and get a list of all people with that kind of debit card first thing tomorrow. Harriet can help us, I am sure." Taking a break in the middle of a case an eating on his own, John noticed the half eaten piece of toast at Sherlock's elbow, was very unusual behavior for his friend. Something about the police reports he held was important to him, more important to him then his current, which usually obsessed him. He was such a strange man.

John sipped his tea and stared at Sherlock, he could not believe he had been propositioned by this manic man only last night. He reached into his robe and pulled out the business card Sherlock had given him. Apparently it had actually happened.

When Sherlock and John left the police station that evening, Sherlock had a bit of spring in his step. Lestrade had thanked Sherlock for the notes he made on their unsolved cases and invited Sherlock and John out for a drink. John thought that it might be fun, but Sherlock politely turned it down saying that alcohol depressed thinking, so he never drank. Lestrade seemed to expect this response and said goodnight to them. John had noticed the absence of Sally Donovan, you usually liked to call Sherlock things like "freak", "psychopath", and "sick weirdo" as many times as she could whenever he dared to enter the police station.

"I didn't see Sgt. Donovan," John observed.

"She always takes this day off," said Sherlock. John slipped back into silence and studied Sherlock. When he was being short with his answers, which was not unusual, but he was always short with his answers, especially when it came to Sgt. Donovan. John wondered if he still had romantic feelings for her, but then he decided that was stupid, the mutual animosity between them was well known. But there was something going on that John did not know about. Every time she was mentioned, some unexpressed emotion briefly flashed in Sherlock's eyes. It was gone so quickly, it had taken John a while to be sure it was there, and he was not if Sherlock himself was aware of it. He probably did not know what to do with feelings and shoved them to the back of his mind where they would not bother him.

They were certainly not bothering him now. Sherlock had a faint smile on his lips and he was walking without seeing what was around him. Solving twenty mysteries in an afternoon had recharged him, and he had new life in him. Undoubtedly he was thinking about the dead girl, probably a new idea or a previously unexamined detail of the case. He would eventually let John know, probably when he wanted someone to be impressed. John had never stopped marveling aloud at Sherlock's deductions, and Sherlock now saved his most brilliant ones for the right moment. He brightened up every time he genuinely impressed John.

Sherlock strode down the street as if he owned the world and John had to admit he was rather attractive when he was self assured and had a mission. There was something sexy about a confident man who knew what he was doing. John eyed him discretely, trying to make out his body through his clothes. Sleeping with Sherlock might be fun. Sherlock had probably noticed, he noticed everything, but he did not comment. They walked the rest of the way each lost in his own thoughts.

When they got back to their flat and shut the door, Sherlock turned to him and appeared to notice he was still there for the first time. "You have been very quiet all the way home, what have you been thinking about?"

John looked up. He hadn't even registered that they had entered the appartment. "Well, about what you said last night."

Sherlock fixed him with that penetrating gaze he had that made John think he was trying to read his mind. "And?"

"Did you really mean it?" He was almost afraid what the answer might be, because Sherlock's answer would probably determine his answer.

"Yes," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

John stared at him; why did he do this? Was everything in life just a logical problem in need of a logical solution? For once John would have liked to hear some conscious feeling in his voice. There was something he needed to know. "Are you doing this just to be nice, or do you really like me?"

Sherlock looked surprised. "What made you think I don't like you? We live together and I take you on cases with me."

John powered on, that was not the answer that he was looking for and they both knew it. "I need to know, as much as it seems contradictory to what I have been saying, I can't just have sex with someone just to have sex. There has to be a reason, there has to be something there."

Sherlock studied him for a while. John knew he was treading on delicate territory. Sherlock never talked about his feelings, or admitted to having them. When someone told him he was heartless he almost took it as a compliment. John refused to believe that Sherlock was a mechanical doll, with gears and springs instead of flesh and bones. John did not even believe that Sherlock was a sociopath; he had some of the qualities, but John had had a sociopath in his unit and Sherlock was not like him. Sherlock did function within a moral code. John did not break eye contact.

After a moment Sherlock looked out the window; John almost thought he had disappointed Sherlock in some way. "Of course I like you. I thought it would be obvious as I live with you, try to spend every waking minute with you, no longer like being alone, and offered to sleep with you. There are few people I like spending that much time with." Sherlock stopped, it seemed to be taking a lot out of him to say this, and he seemed to force himself to continue. "If you are talking about love, I don't think I can give that to you. I have read a lot about love and have yet to experience it. Don't expect me to re-affirm my affection for you every day by saying stupid things like how your smiled reminds me of a ray of sunshine. I would never compare your smile to something yellow, it might reflect poorly on your brushing habits. But the fact remains if I didn't like you I wouldn't be here." He looked back at John; his snappy business tone was back. "Does that answer your question?"

John nodded and walked over to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him in a hug. Sherlock stiffened in surprise for a moment and then relaxed a little. John just had a desire to hold the strange Sherlock, something about him made him almost cute in John's eyes. It was probably how awkward Sherlock was being about the whole business. He was now, tentatively patting John on the back.

Something about the body in the morgue came back to John. He had not been thinking about the dead girl, but it was hard to separate Sherlock from murders in his mind. "The girl in the morgue, she had a lot of bruises, but some of them were old and healing, not fresh like the one she received on the night she was killed. I think she knew her killer well, and he had been beating her for a while before he killed her," John looked up at Sherlock to see what he thought of this. "That would be more likely right? An abuse victim killed by her abuser?"

"Nicely done," said Sherlock with real pride in his voice. "I must admit I missed that." He looked disappointed.

John looked up at Sherlock, "Don't worry; we'll get you back on form."

Sherlock smiled, now that he had all of John's attention, he was sure he would.

That night Sherlock got a call from DI Lestrade. They had finally figured out the girl's identity, Alice Harper. They would be heading over to her flat the next morning. Sherlock would of course be there, he could barely wait. He was just re-reading the forensics report from the body, he had missed a lot the first time, when John walked into the room; he had just taken a shower and was standing in a towel. Sherlock stared at him and there was an awkward silence for a moment.

John cleared his throat. "You all finished for tonight?" he asked with forced casualness.

Sherlock waved the folder. "Just need to finish this report, why?" Now that he looked at the pictures more closely he realized that John had been right. Why hadn't he realized this before?

John looked uncomfortable. "I was just wondering if you wanted to, to, to, you know, come into my room?"

"Be there in five minutes." Sherlock had pulled out his magnifying glass and was examining a picture of Alice's wrist. He did not even look up.

John didn't move; he was beginning to feel distinctly awkward about this. "You do know why I am asking right?"

"You want to have sex." Sometimes John hated how frank Sherlock could be with subjects he found a little embarrassing. "All you have to do is ask."

"Oh," replied John. "That hasn't how it's worked for me before."

Sherlock looked up curiously. "How did it come about then," he asked.

"Oh, you know, kissing, groping in the dark, suddenly realizing you are on the bed and half your clothes are missing. More spontaneous."

Sherlock seemed to give this some thought. "That sounds terribly unorganized."

"Right. Well, whenever you are done looking at corpses and want to hang out with a warm body you know where to find me." John walked into his room. Maybe he had been too hasty agreeing to have sex with someone who had no social skills or any idea about how it was done. There was usually some form of sweaty foreplay even if it was brief. Just asking for sex sounded so passionless. He briefly imagined Sherlock saying, "Up, down, up, down, up, down. There you are Watson." as they bounced up and down. He would not be satisfied and would reply, "Once more, with feeling this time!" Dear god, please let it not be horrible awkward and turn into something he regrets.

He lay down on his bed thinking, something he was prone to do a lot these days, and soon Sherlock joined him. They looked at each other for a moment; John did not know what to say. He was about to say this was a terrible idea and they would call up a prostitute tomorrow when Sherlock kissed him with another one of his breath taking kisses. All the doubts John left his mind as he grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled him to him. John's towel fell away as Sherlock's knee slid past his thigh had rolled on top of him and was straddling him now, and John began to work on Sherlock's belt. They broke apart for air and Sherlock pulled his shirt over his head, he was incredibly thin with the slightest hint of muscles, the doctor in John saw that he was underweight, but not dangerously so, it was a problem that could wait for later, before going back down to meet John's lips and after a bit of wiggling and kicking they had manage to remove Sherlock's trousers and boxers.

John looked at Sherlock, a naked man wearing nothing but a navy pair of socks. For some reason, he could pull off being naked in only socks. John was happy he had not lost all the muscle he had gained from being in the military. He was not in peak shape, but his body was only covered by a thin layer of fat. He was self-conscious for a moment, but Sherlock did not seem to mind. He was smiling down at him running his fingers so lightly down John's chest that John was not sure he could feel it. He loved the way those long fingers were whispering along his skin. Sherlock was not the kind of person to care about physical appearance, unless it was Mycroft. John ran a hand from down his side, feeling ribs under his skin, until it came to rest on Sherlock's hip. "How do you want to do this?" he asked breathless. He knew what was supposed to happen in theory with two men, but he had never done anything like this before.

"You've only been with women then?" Sherlock asked. John nodded. Sherlock smiled in that knowing way meant that he had more information on the subject than John before reaching over into the pocket of his trousers and pulling out a small bottle of lube. John was about to say something, but Sherlock silenced him with a long gentle kiss, before slowly moving down his chest with his mouth paying attention to John's nipples, and then moving further down to John's growing erection. He was somewhat hard already, but when Sherlock's tongue and lips started caressing, licking, sucking, and moving up and down his shaft he let out a moan.

Sherlock lifted his head up and smiled a John. John looked back a little panicked. "Don't stop," he whispered.

Sherlock grinned and after adding a little lube to the spit that was already coating John's penis he lowered himself onto it, a slight grimace of pain crossing his face for a moment.

"Are you alright," John asked, concerned. He did not want to hurt Sherlock, sex was supposed to be fun for both parties.

"I just haven't done this in a while, it will pass." He smiled reassuringly, but John didn't stop being concerned until Sherlock started to rock back and forth. His mind stopped working.

"Blimey," was all he could say then, "Fuck, shit!" as Sherlock tried different rhythms and angles until he found the combination that suited them both. John looked up at the wiry man, that, from now, on he would forever think of as a sex god, bouncing above him. John rolled his hips to meet Sherlock's. He tried to figure out what else he could do back to Sherlock, but he was having such a hard focusing and trying to last, especially when Sherlock started massaging a nipple, that he just ran his hands all over him, trying to touch every inch. He couldn't even speak anymore, he was panting so hard, and Sherlock was covered in sweat, smiling, and breathing heavily. He winked at John. John couldn't take it anymore and came with a string of incoherent swear words. A moment later he felt a warm spurt of liquid on his chest and Sherlock collapsed on top of him.

They lay there together, tangled in each other's limbs, until they caught their breath. John pulled Sherlock back up to him and kissed him slowly, savoring every moment, he felt he could do this forever. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close, John slowly moved down his neck, kissing and breathing in Sherlock's scent. "No marks that could be seen even when I am wearing a shirt, please," Sherlock whispered, this thumb rubbing back and forth on John's hip.

John nuzzled him instead. "Man, when you learn a skill, you learn a skill," he whispered almost drunkenly, his lips brushing against Sherlock's neck as he talked. Sherlock chuckled. If there was one thing John new about him, it was that he would always take pride in being able to do something well. He held John in his arms until he thought John was asleep, and then he slipped out of the bed.

John felt Sherlock get up. "Where are you going?" he mumbled sleepily, his bed felt so empty.

"I am sticky, smelly, and sweaty. I can't sleep like this so I am taking a shower," Sherlock replied picking up his clothes. His usual tone was firmly back in place.

John watched Sherlock leave the room and thought how it was comforting to know that although they had shagged, he had not changed toward John at all. John had hoped for a touch of tenderness to enter Sherlock's voice, but he not going to brood over that right now. The last thing John heard before he went to sleep was the hiss of the shower.


	4. Another Day, Another Body

I own nothing, as always.

Sherlock was bouncing around the apartment thinking. He had two nicotine patches on each arm and he was buzzing. John was out doing the shopping, hopefully he did not get into a fight with an inanimate object. They had talked to the man that the girl's mother had been told was her boyfriend, but when they interviewed him, Sherlock was sure this was a lie. He was muscular enough to cause the damage that killed her, and he had the tight, aggressive, withdrawn persona of someone who could be killed at the first sign on weakness. He tried to act sad, but did not convince anyone; even Lestrade knew he was lying. His apartment was that of a batcheloer, but there was evidence of multiple women having passed through. Sherlock saw two bras of different sizes, compressed powder for three different skin tones, and a pair of high heeled shoes, far too small for the man, Bob, to wear himself. The signs of other women were so obvious that Sherlock doubted that even the most besotted and love sick girl would not notice them. Lestrade agreed that this man was probably the one who had killed her, but said that they needed concrete evidence. Sherlock pointed out that the way the man was walking showed that someone had tried very hard to get away from him recently, kicking him repeatedly in the shins. Lestrade said that this was merely circumstantial. Why couldn't everyone just accept he was right, it would save so much time?

They had stopped off at the bank to see if the girl had had an account there. She had, it had been a joint account with Bob. Bob, as it turned out, had joint accounts with many different woman. Harry printed them out a list of all of Bob's accounts and the girl's account activity for the past month. Sherlock and John had thanked her and John had promised to go out with her for a drink sometime. Sherlock did not tell Lestrade about the account. Lestrade had annoyed him by insisting on physical evidence when Sherlock knew he was right.

John returned in good spirits loaded down with groceries and shivering a little from the cold, there had been a hard frost that morning and it was only just above freezing. It was scarf weather, the kind of weather Sherlock liked. Though he liked it a little less when he saw that John had borrowed his scarf. He should have been furious, but he found that he was only slightly annoyed. Of course if they went out together later, he would wear his warm scarf and John could find something else.

"It is absolutely freezing outside so I borrowed your scarf," John said taking it off and putting on the table. Sherlock wondered why John always felt the need to state the obvious.

"I noticed," replied Sherlock in his usual deadpan. "I hope you didn't get it dirty."

John took off his coat and gloves before starting to put food away into the fridge and cupboards. "It is still as clean as when I took it this morning."

Sherlock knew this wasn't true as he had undoubtedly left some skin cells and oil on it, but did not correct him. John did not think of these things, and considering what they usually spent their nights doing, it few skins cells weren't going to hurt Sherlock. He walked over to the window and looked out of it and down to the street, when he had a problem that was causing him difficulty he liked to remind himself that at least he wasn't stuck in the head of a normal person like the rest of humanity. That would make his current life impossible.

John walked over to the window to stand next to him and lean into him ever so slightly. Sherlock put an arm around the smaller man. The one thing that surprised Sherlock about this relationship was how cuddly John was. He had only expected sex to be the only thing that was added, but John seemed to want to touch and hold him all the time. Sherlock did not mind lying on the couch together in the mornings while he read the paper and John tried to wake up or in the evenings when they both watched the television or read. John seemed to need to be touched and held a lot, something Sherlock did not understand. Strangely, he found he didn't mind spending hours in each other's arms as long as he could still hold a book or a laptop, and it made John happy so he said nothing.

It was when John tried to hold Sherlock's hand when they were on their way to the morgue that he drew a line. Sherlock had always despised public displays of affection. "It's unprofessional," he snapped.

John looked hurt but did not say anything. Sherlock took him out to dinner later that week. He was not sure if it counted as a date, but while they were sitting next to each other in a booth in the corner of the restaurant and John put his hand on his thigh, Sherlock did not complain. The meal was nice, they talked about what John was putting in his blog about Sherlock these days, and Sherlock noted how the candle light made them both look younger and healthier. So that it why candle light is considered _romantic_, he thought.

It was only when John had tried to kiss him that he leaned away. "We are in public," he hissed, "it's indecent."

John pointed at a couple a few tables away who alternating between kissing and giggling as they ate their spaghetti together. It looked like they were trying to reenact the famous dinner scene from _The Lady and the Tramp_. "I don't think anyone here will mind," said John quietly, a little disappointed.

Sherlock snorted derisively. He obviously thought the happy spaghetti couple had no class. John looked down and saw that Sherlock had only eaten a quarter of what was on his plate, John had cleared his plate and then downed four breadsticks. Sherlock never seemed to eat, and whenever he was around Mycroft the subject of Mycroft's diet came up. Not for the first time, John wondered what upbringing could have created Sherlock and Mycroft. And what kind of parent would pick those names.

And John had never tried to touch Sherlock romantically on a case again and did not go past hand holding when they went out in public together. He had at first thought that Sherlock was ashamed of him, for some reason, but then realized that Sherlock did not feel the need to constantly reaffirm his affection in front of other people. His business was his business. When they were alone in their flat, as they were now, Sherlock did not express any objections to anything John wanted to do, except when it interfered directly with his work, and even went out of his way to hug John. John felt extremely privileged to be voluntarily hugged so often by Sherlock as he noticed Sherlock did not generally like to be touched by anyone; he made handshakes awkward and never some much as patted anyone on the back. So it was moments like this, when Sherlock put his arm around him spontaneously, that John treasured the most.

Sherlock had never been the instigator of their nightly adventures in the sheets, though he always responded with enthusiasm. John often wondered if Sherlock only agreed to sleep with him to make him happy. He knew that Sherlock preferred him to other people, but he would like to see fire burn in his eyes as he pinned him to the mattress and made him moan with ecstasy. John had accepted that that was probably not going to happen. Fire only blazed in Sherlock's eyes when he had a particularly intriguing case. John knew that he was not the most important thing in Sherlock's life, but he liked being a close second. He hadn't felt this alive since he was actively serving. He leaned is head against Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes. John was happy for the first time in a long time.

"That Bob is guilty, but I can't prove it yet," Sherlock said grumpily.

"You will, you always do," John replied, relaxed and care free. He was enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's hand moving up and down on his arm. "Not even Moriarty could outsmart you."

Sherlock, quite unexpectedly kissed the top of John's head. Spontaneous displays of affection were not his thing. John moved out of Sherlock's hug to look at him for a moment. Sherlock was surprised by this and raised an eyebrow questioningly. John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels and pulled him on top of him and on to the couch. His hands were running through Sherlock's hair as Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt. They kissed franticly, John's jumper was pulled off and over his head at some point, and Sherlock was just doing something obscenely delightful to John's left nipple when Sherlock's phone rang. Sherlock's head was instantly up.

"I'm expecting a call."

The phone rang again. Sherlock got up, John groaned in disappointment. "Can't you leave it?"

"No." Sherlock picked up the phone. "Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock was still standing close to the couch. John grabbed around the waist and pulled him down so he was sitting on top of him. He was so thin and light that his weight barely impeded John's breathing.

"_It's Lestrade, I got the results back from the lab."_

"And?" Sherlock asked breathlessly. John slowly slipped his hand into Sherlock's trousers and tried something that Sherlock had done to him once. Sherlock lurched forward and let an indecent groan pass his lips.

"_Is this a good time?"_

"Yes, yes, it's fine," Sherlock replied shortly. He placed the phone to his chest. "Stop that," he snapped, grabbing John's hand and forcibly putting it on John's chest. John tried to look innocent, but Sherlock glared at him and walked to the other side of the room. He heard someone giggle on the other end of the phone line.

"_Are you with someone?"_

"What were the results?"

"_She was dying of syphilis, which is odd as that is not longer fatal is treated on time. Also, we found another body."_

"Where?"

"_Blackfriars Rd, by Doggets Coat and Badge."_

"I'm on my way." Sherlock hung up the phone and went to the coat stand to grab his long black coat.

"Do you really have to go now?" John asked, still lying on the couch, shirtless and looking hopeful.

He turned to John as he put on his scarf with the glint in his eyes. "They found another body."

John jumped off the couch and grabbed his jumper and undershirt. "Where are we going?"

"You're not coming with me; you have an appointment with your psychiatrist in half an hour." Sherlock was annoyed, usually he made John cancel his appointments.

"Shit!" John got dressed with less enthusiasm now. "I forgot."

"I know you did, your mind was on other things." Sherlock slipped on his gloves and put his phone in his pocket. "Call me when you've finished your session."

Sherlock walked along the river bank, the cold wind whipping at his coat and hair, trying to pull it off. He saw the police gathered around another body wrapped in plastic and noticed a couple of them stare at him and then whisper to each other. What could they be on about now? When he got closer one of the officers called to him. "Had a good afternoon, eh there, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him like he was mad. Since when did anyone care about what kind of afternoon he had? He went straight to DI Lestrade. "How long ago was the body found?" he asked without pretext.

Lestrade turned to him. "About an hour ago." Lestrade looked awkwardly at his officers for a moment and then leaned in close to Sherlock and spoke in a low voice. "I know you value your privacy so I am very sorry, but Anderson was next to me when I made the call and told everyone how you we otherwise engaged, so sorry about any comments." Sherlock's face darkened slightly. Lestrade knew Sherlock would be unhappy about this and to make up for it he was being extra accommodating today. It was clear no one had touched the body yet and he was holding out a pair of rubber gloves.

Sherlock took the gloves without comment, and another one of Lestrade's badges in his pocket, and went over to the body. The victim had been severely beaten, but some of the bruises were faded and old, another girl who had an abusive companion. The septum was damaged and there were signs of a recent nose bleed, probably from cocaine use. The nails were not ragged, but there could be skin cells under there, they would check at the morgue. There were strange bruises on her arms suggesting she had been tried up to something and her arms were bent painfully backwards in some way. Her knees were calloused and a bit worn, suggesting she spent a lot of time on them, but her hands were soft and her nails were well maintained so she did not scrub floors. Prostitute?

Sherlock straitened up. Did she also have a joint account with Bob? Lestrade walked over to him. "Any thoughts?"

Sherlock debated leaving without telling him anything, but as he had let him examine the body first he was not going to be too mean. "I would test her for cocaine and any other recreational drugs she might have been on and check all her wounds for trace fibers. She was tied up with something, and if you are lucky it will have left traces. Get a doctor to catalog all the bruises and try and figure out how old they are exactly."

Lestrade motioned to Anderson to come over. He was surprised to get so much out of the usually cryptic Sherlock. Sherlock turned to look out over the river and thought hard. Bob did not seem like a pimp, but did he work for one? He had to find out if she had a pimp or who she was working for.

" . . .and screen for all toxins, especially recreational drugs like cocaine." Lestrade had just finished giving instructions to Anderson who was scribbling them down on a note pad. "And when Holmes gives you the okay, let forensics to sweep the whole area and examine the body."

Anderson looked resentful at being ordered to wait for Sherlock's orders. Sherlock was listening but still looking out across the river at the cars going past. "It's strange of you to be here without your faithful spaniel," Anderson said too causally. He was prying.

"At a psychiatrist appointment," Sherlock answered shortly, not sure where this was going.

"So you had the flat to yourself today. Who was she then? This woman who made you make a rather indecent noise over the telephone. I could hear it standing next to the Detective Inspector." He was grinning unpleasantly. Anderson was as subtle as a brick to the face. Sherlock did not understand why men were intently interested in their colleague's sexual exploits, if he could even call Anderson a colleague.

He gave Anderson a withering look. "Why on earth would I tell you?" It made no sense for Anderson to try and be prying into his personal life, they hated each other. He turned around to see Donovan quickly look away. Anderson didn't really want to know. Sherlock turned to walk away from him.

"I was just curious as to who you could find to sleep with a freak like you," Anderson called after him. Sherlock ignored him and continued toward Donovan.

He walked up behind her. "Why do suddenly have the need to pry into my personal life?"

Sally turned around and glared at him. "I thought you gave up sex because it distracted from your work, at least that's what you told me." She was angry at him.

"It did distract from my work, or more accurately, you distracted from my work." Sally looked like he had just slapped her. Sherlock colored slightly. "For God's sake let it go, Woman!" He took a moment to collect himself. "I mean, you still tell everyone I am a murdering psychopath! When will you move on or transfer to a different department?"

"Only a heartless bastard like you would think anyone could move on from something like that!" Sally spat, then smirking at him. "You're touchy today. Are you afraid if I find out who it is I'll tell them nasty things about you?"

Sherlock shut his mouth and glared at her, obviously he was not going to be saying any more about the subject. Sally looked behind him. "I'll just ask Watson who she is, I bet he knows."

Sherlock whipped around to see John strolling towards them. Sherlock hurried to meet him before the others could talk to them. "Tell them nothing, Anderson heard the call and now Donovan has an unhealthy interest in my love life," Sherlock whispered urgently.

"What?" asked John confused.

"Nothing," Sherlock repeated.

Sally walked up to them, still smiling. "Hello John," she said pleasantly, "do you think you could enlighten us on who our favorite detective's new girlfriend is?"

"Who?" John looked from Sally's charming smile to Sherlock who, was staring at him intently with what could almost be described as a glare. "Wha - ? Oh! No, I can't, no idea really." He knew he was unconvincing but it was too late.

Sherlock looked satisfied, he turned to Donovan. "See, he can't help you. Go tell Anderson he can send forensics in to look at the body. Come John, we are going to visit a brothel." Sherlock started down the road at a brisk pace, quickly distancing himself from Sally and the other police officers.

"What?" John asked, surprised. Sally smiled and shrugged at him. He had a feeling it was not over. "I better . . . ." He turned and followed Sherlock up the road.

"Why are we going to a brothel?" he called.

It was evening a few days later and they were both sitting in the flat. Sherlock was reading a book and John was lying on Sherlock's lap and watching a quiz show on the television. Rain gently beat against the window, and the light drumming combined with Sherlock's rhythmic breathing and the flip of the book pages was lulling John into a relaxed, almost sleepy stupor. Sherlock threw the book aside and let out a huff of frustration.

"What's wrong," mumbled John.

"Bored." Sherlock huffed again. This case had gotten so dull. We know who is doing it, and how, and we are just trying to prove it, there is no puzzle to solve. I need a new case. This one was barely worth my time."

John patted his knee reassuringly. "Well, something is bound to come up. Maybe a piece of art will be stolen by a master thief or something."

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose. I almost wish that Moriarty would turn up again."

John was no longer relaxed. "As much fun as I have solving cases with you, I would rather not end up with a bomb strapped to my chest again."

Sherlock looked down at him and seemed to think for a moment. "It would be rather unfortunate if you were to get blown up." He stroked John's hair out of his eyes and then turned his eyes back to the television, but he was not actually watching it, his mind was somewhere else.

Sherlock persisted on the Cooper case, they found a witness who had seen the murdered prostitute, know as Allie, with a man matching the old F.B.I. agent's description and he had been prevented from leaving the United Kingdom so they could keep him for questioning. The evidence was slowly staking up, but Sherlock was still bored. He needed something fresh, something to challenge him. It arrived in the form of a letter addressed to him. No return address on the envelope and inside was a single piece of paper with the name "Gavin Newton" written on it in red ink.

It took Sherlock ten minutes to find out that Gavin had been found in a shopping mall dressing room with a large gash in his head, when they took him to the hospital they found out he had extensive brain damage and was essentially a vegetable. No one knew how he had ended up in the dressing room bleeding to death. He had been removed from life support the previous day. Sherlock was ecstatic.

"John!" He got up and paced about the room impatiently, wanting John to be there s he could share the news. He heard the flush of a toilet, running water from the tap, and a moment later John walked in.

"What's all the excitement about?"

Sherlock could not keep still as he explained. "So we are going to figure out how he died! Someone thinks there was foul play and sent us his name to try and get us to solve it!"

"But who sent the tip and why?" John asked. He had a bad feeling about this.

"That is part of the mystery!" Sherlock was still dancing around the room until he saw John's face. He stopped. "I don't think it is Moriarty, this is not his style."

John felt a little better but not much. "So where are we going to start."

"You are going to get the police report of the case from Lestrade and I am going to pay a visit to his family, maybe they were too grief stricken to clear out his room." Sherlock was already putting on his coat.

John paused. He still felt uneasy about the whole thing. "Why wait two years before asking for help? Why wait until there is no hope for him and he is dead?"

Sherlock paused putting on his scarf. John had a point; the timing was a bit strange. "Maybe his death sparked someone to seek revenge for his murder. As you said, there is no longer any hope of him coming back."


	5. Gavin Newton

Alas, nothing is owned by me.

It was evening a few days later and they were both in for the night. Sherlock was reading a book and John was lying on Sherlock's lap and watching a quiz show on the television. Rain gently beat against the window, and the light drumming combined with Sherlock's rhythmic breathing and the flip of the book pages was lulling John into a relaxed, almost sleepy stupor. He had stopped paying attention to what they were talking about on the television and let the voices wash over him as background noise as he focused on Sherlock's breathing. John had almost drifted off to sleep when Sherlock threw the book aside and let out a huff of frustration.

"What's wrong?" mumbled John.

"Bored." Sherlock huffed again. "This case had gotten so dull. We know who is doing it, and how, and we are just trying to prove it, there is no puzzle to solve. I need a new case. This one was barely worth my time."

"Well at least Lestrade is trying to get two thugs off the street, making London a safer place." John patted his knee reassuringly. "Well, something is bound to come up. Maybe a piece of art will be stolen by a master thief or something."

"I suppose." Sherlock sighed. "I almost wish that Moriarty would turn up again."

John tensed up immediately. "As much fun as I have solving cases with you, I would rather not end up with a bomb strapped to my chest again." He still woke up sweating thinking about the night at the pool."

Sherlock looked down at him and seemed to think for a moment. "It would be rather unfortunate if you were to get blown up." He stroked John's hair out of his eyes and then turned his eyes back to the television, but he was not actually watching it, his mind was somewhere else.

Sherlock persisted on the case, they found a witness who had seen the murdered prostitute, know as Allie, with a man matching Bob's description and he had been prevented from leaving the United Kingdom so they could keep him for questioning. The evidence was slowly staking up, but Sherlock was still bored. He needed something fresh, something to challenge him. So a pimp beats up and kills his hoe, what is interesting about that? There was no problem, no mystery, nothing to occupy his mind. He needed something. When there was nothing his mind when to places he would rather not go. Where was the distraction he needed?

It arrived in the form of a letter addressed to him. No return address on the envelope and inside was a single piece of paper with the name "Gavin Newton" written on it in red ink.

It took Sherlock ten minutes to find out that Gavin had been found in a shopping mall dressing room with a large wound on his head, when they took him to the hospital they found out he had extensive brain damage and was essentially a vegetable. No one knew how he had ended up in the dressing room bleeding to death. They kept him alive for two years while the family fought over whether to keep him alive or give up. He had been removed from life support the previous day. Sherlock was ecstatic.

"John!" He got up and paced about the room impatiently, wanting John to be there s he could share the news. He heard the flush of a toilet, running water from the tap, and a moment later John walked in half dressed.

"What's all the excitement about?" He asked.

Sherlock could not keep still as he explained. "So we are going to figure out how he died! Someone thinks there was foul play and sent us his name to try and get us to solve it!"

"But who sent the tip and why?" John asked. He was not nearly as excited about this as Sherlock was and did not like the feel of this case.

"That is part of the mystery!" Sherlock was still dancing around the room until he saw John's face. He stopped. "I don't think it is Moriarty."

John felt a little better but not much. "So where are we going to start?"

"You are going to get the police report of the case from Lestrade and I am going to pay a visit to his family, maybe they were too grief stricken to clear out his room." Sherlock was already putting on his coat.

John paused. He still felt uneasy about the whole thing. "Why wait two years before asking for help? Why wait until there is no hope for him and he is dead?"

Sherlock paused putting on his scarf. John had a point; the timing was a bit strange. "Maybe his death sparked someone to seek revenge for his murder. As you said, there is no longer any hope of him coming back."

Sherlock hurried out the flat and John sighed and rubbed his eyes. It was far too early for this much excitement. He trudged back into the bathroom to shave before he went out to the police station.

The boy's parents were not home. Gavin had been seventeen when he was attacked and still lived with them. Sherlock let himself in and headed upstairs. The house seemed normal enough, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in any of the bedrooms. They were so generic that he had almost given up hope that they had turned Gavin's room into a guest room when he opened the last door at the end of the hall. This room did not belong to the rest of the house.

Newspaper clippings covered the walls; Sherlock looked closely to see they were all about crimes or cases that had appeared in the tabloids. Gavin had tracked the progress of the cases from the top of his wall, where the first article of about the case would be hung, and down as subsequent articles followed the progress of the investigation. There were quite a few cases that Sherlock had worked on, and he was shocked to find a picture of himself on the wall. Granted he was only in the background and the photo was of Sgt. Donovan leading a suspect to a police car, but he was uneasy that there was the slightest possibility Gavin was a fan. He still remembered the meeting with his previous "fan". He was obviously a crime buff as his book shelf was full of detective novels, true crime thrillers, and guides to police and detective procedure. There were a few fantasy books that he had probably gotten for Christmas or a birthday in a stack next to the shelf. They looked new, while all the books on the self were well worn.

Looking at the desk, Sherlock noticed a cup of pens, including a few red ones. He pulled the sheet of paper with Gavin's name out of his pocket and found the pen that had wrote the note. The person who wanted him to investigate had either been in Gavin's room or owned the same pen. It was too much of a coincidence. There were a few note books full of school notes next to the computer. Searching the desk, Sherlock found a small journal in one of the drawers, which he pocketed. The rest of the drawers were filled with things that were to be expected in the bedroom of a teenage boy: dirty magazines, pens, crumpled pieces of paper, a small key, a chip bag. Sherlock paused to look at one of the crumpled bits of paper. It had an e-mail he recognized. This boy had been asking advice on computer hacking from someone called Plague. He put the printed out e-mail and put it in his pocket.

After searching through the drawers, he turned on the desktop to try and find out if the boy had anything interesting on the computer. It took him half an hour and a thorough perusal of the diary to figure out the password. "So you at least have some knowledge when it comes to computers," he said to himself. "Or at least know how to make a secure password."

The contents of the computer were pretty normal. Porn, school papers, a few computer games like Minecraft and Tetris. Sherlock was just checking through the music folder for good measure when he found something odd. The folder for a band called Lamb of God contained 5 GB of information. None of the other folders took up nearly that much space. What was there? Was he an obsessed fan or was something hidden there? Inside were a lot of folders, but only one pertaining to the band's music. Sherlock did not have time to read through them all now. He fished a USB drive out of the drawer and copied the files onto it. Gavin must have been into computers to buy a 16GB drive back when that would have cost you an arm and a leg.

Before leaving Sherlock checked the closet and under the bed just to be thorough. The whole room was messy with socks, bits of paper, pens, and other items scattered on the floor and under the bed was the same. But there was a rectangle on empty space. The only thing in that rectangle was dust, as thick as the dust covering everything else, suggesting a box had been sitting there until right before Gavin had been attacked, or possibly after Gavin was no longer around to mess up his room. Sherlock wondered what had been in that box and where it was now. It seemed important since it had been moved so close to the time of Gavin's death.

When John got back with a case file, he had ended up having to swipe at as Sgt. Donovan refused to do anything for him until he told her the name of Sherlock's girlfriend, he found Sherlock bent over his computer reading a file with a lot of numbers in it and tapping his fingers on the desk peevishly. John wondered why the sudden interest in accounting. "I got the file, I had to steal it," he said putting it down on the table.

"Good," said Sherlock turning away from the computer with relief. "I am tired of all this financial gibberish. They are just strings of numbers and dollar amounts." He picked up the folder and flopped on the couch. "Anything interesting at the police station?"

John sat down in front of the computer and started scrolling through the document Sherlock had been reading. "Sgt. Donovan was exceedingly unhelpful; she wants to know who your girlfriend is."

"I don't have a girlfriend," Sherlock replied flipping a page in the report.

"I know that but she doesn't" said John with a smile and then looking back at the screen. "This is a list of account transfers. The account number is at the top and then as you go down there is the date, amount, and account number it came from or went to. It is very detailed. Where did you get this?"

"It was on Gavin Newton's computer." Sherlock was now examining the photos of the injury. "It looks like a blow to the head with a heavy rounded object, maybe a bat."

"Good grief! Whoever owns this account is rich, there is a transfer into the account of 3.2 million pounds on December 14, 2008, and that is not the only big deposit." John was scanning the list with excitement. "This is the account of a billionaire. In fact when he emptied it, he had 2.6 billion pounds."

Sherlock paused. "When did he empty the account?"

"October 4, 2009, in fact that is the last entry on this sheet." John and Sherlock looked at each other as they came to the same conclusion. "That was two days before they found Gavin Newton."

"People have been killed for less." Sherlock said without feeling, then he eyed John curiously. "How are you able to make sense of all that, anyway?"

"Harry went to university for Banking and Finance and she made me help her study for her exams."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I shall have to meet your sister one day." The help of a banker might prove invaluable on this case.

Sherlock was sitting alone in the apartment again. After a long discussion and some arguing, they decided to ask John's sister to give them a hand when it came to figuring out how to trace the account numbers to owners. John wouldn't tell Sherlock what was between them or why John avoided asking her for help if at all possible, but he assumed it had to do with John failing his O Levels. This time he did not mind being alone, in fact it was refreshing. It had been a long time since John had had a night out, and as Sherlock was an introverted person, the constant company had begun to wear on him, even if it was only John. Thank god they had separate rooms. There was also no risk of Sherlock losing John as a result of going out tonight. Sherlock knew John was going to hang out with someone he didn't like. Harry was no threat; John would never leave Sherlock for his own sister.

Things were going well so far, John seemed happy and Sherlock was happy to have John and a new case. The only problem was that John seemed to be getting emotionally attached and may expect Sherlock to reciprocate. Sherlock knew he would be in trouble is John started on one of those "Why do you like me?" lines on inquiry Sally had so often started. He did not see why he had to re-affirm his feelings. He did not understand why people needed to share their feelings. There was no logical point to them; they only got in the way. He could not fake them for long periods of time and did not think he could write a sonnet if his life depended on it.

Sherlock deiced that he needed some fresh air. He suddenly felt uneasy and did not know why. He walked out the door and wandered the London streets for a while until he felt at ease. Emotions: useless and troublesome.

A very harassed John and returned with the names of the five account owners. A bunch of Shady business men. All had been accused with various charges but none of them had been convicted. There were even allegations they had destroyed evidence. Nothing could be proved, things had just disappeared. How were they connected with Gavin Newton, he still did not know. Was it worth murdering someone you had never met just because they looked at your finances?

The bank accounts belonged to some very rich people who may or may not have had connection to crime syndicates. As far as Harry could tell, Gavin had just made note of the account transactions, not taken any money. It would be harder to trace where all the deposits came from, but she was sure they would not be as important. The five accounts that everything had trickled into were the important ones, she said.

John was making himself a strong cup of tea while he complained about the smug look on Harry's face and other aspects of his day that he did not enjoy. Sherlock ignored him and thought as words like "bitch" and "stuck-up" floated past him. What had Gavin found? Had he made contact? Were these funds obtained illegally? Had Gavin tried to blackmail them? There was more to this mystery than met the eye. This was definitely the kind of puzzle that was worth his time.

John plopped down on the couch next to Sherlock and leaned his head on his shoulder, bringing Sherlock back to the present. "I hate my family sometimes, do you know the feeling?"

Sherlock let out a humorless laugh. "You've met Mycroft. Do you really need me to answer the question?"

John smiled and snuggled into Sherlock who took that as a signal to put his arm around him. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the classical music that drifted out of the radio. John drank his tea then fell asleep and Sherlock was afraid that if he moved he would wake him. He could sit here to think. Gavin had been obsessed with crime. At some point he had probably wanted to solve a crime. Sherlock remembered the day that he decided to stop sitting on the sidelines and actually try and become one of the detectives he read about. The thrill of trying to outsmart the kind of evil masterminds that he read about as a child had obsessed him. Real criminals were hardly that creative in real life. Except for one. Sherlock tried to imagine himself as a bright but not brilliant teenager taking his first crack at solving a real crime. He had probably gone to Plague for advice on hacking computers, which was the only way he could obtain those bank records. He could not risk asking the hacker about why Gavin had contacted them. For all he knew they may have been the one to arrange the murder.

Gavin had not been murdered in the mall, but his body had been found there the next day. There were no traces of a struggle and the only thing they found the way of forensic evidence was plastic from the kind of garbage bags you could find at any grocery store. Even the weapon had been placed in one before they hit him. The police could not even account for all his missing blood, he had lost almost four pints by the time they found him but there was less than a pint around him and on his clothing. She shoes and phone could be taken so they could not track his movements that day, though his last call had been to his sister at 5:17pm. The mall had not been broken into and the security cameras had caught nothing. The crime was almost too perfect. This worried Sherlock. This worried him a lot. But what he was afraid of was unlikely. The next morning he would try to interview one of the men whose account had been monitored.

He was probably worrying for no reason at all. But he had become cautious, when had that happened? It suddenly occurred to him that he now had something to lose.

John awoke with a start, seemed panicked for a moment, looked up at Sherlock who was rubbing his arm in what he hoped was a comforting manner, and started to relax again as his breathing slowed down to its normal rate. His stomach growled. "Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked.

"A little, but I don't want food." John looked at Sherlock for a long time before speaking again, something was troubling him, a shadow lurked behind those kind eyes of his. "Do you think we could just shag each other's brains out and try not to think of anything else tonight?"

Sherlock smiled. "That sounds like a very good idea to me."

Even though they were on round four, they were both at the end of their endurance, John was gripping the headboard with one hand trying to stay up, and Sherlock was gripping John's hips and thrusting into him with impressive speed, Sherlock could not stop thinking. His mind kept going over the details of the case. Except for brief moment of ecstasy before he collapsed on top of John, he could not silence his brain. This had never bothered him before, but now suspects, motives, and unmade connections flashed across his mind like endless cars flying past on the freeway. And with those flashes came a feeling of disquiet.

John mumbled something that Sherlock could not make out and then grinned without opening his eyes. Sherlock scooted closer to John, who rested his head on Sherlock's chest. He held John in his arms until the John fell asleep, ten minutes and he was dead to the world, and then slipped out of bed to take his customary post coital shower.

The cool water cleared his head he found his way back into the calm sea of logic he had sworn himself to long ago. After his shower Sherlock stood in the bathroom looking at himself in the mirror for a long time. "Get a grip on yourself," he whispered.


	6. Frustration

Nothing, I own nothing!

Sherlock left the next morning before John was awake. He had visited two of the names already. Mark Richmond was too thick to plan anything diabolical. Dennis Suffick was bedridden and had been since 1995. He managed his business from his bed but seemed thoroughly uninterested in anything that did not involve cheese. A motorcycle accident ten years prior had given him server brain damage and had never been quite the same. Sherlock was grumpy and hoped that Allan Forester was more his man. He had book an appointment to meet the man at 11am. Mr. Forester helped investors with their stock portfolios. While this could be profitable, Sherlock had not found a list of clients or any evidence that Forester was doing enough business to earn millions of dollars. He must have some other way of earning the millions in his bank account.

Sherlock entered the building and found himself in a black marble lobby. He gave his name and purpose and the secretary sent him upstairs to wait in a small reception area. In five minutes he was called into a large office with a floor to ceiling window overlooking London, the view was incredible. A man of average height with sandy blonde hair and a receding hairline sat in front of him, he was wearing an Armani suit and new Rolex watch. The office was decorated with real works of art and a few bottles of very expensive spirits sat on a side board that was oak and an antique. This was an office fit for a CEO of the company. How had Sherlock managed to get a face-to-face appointment with such a man on such short notice? He had simply asked to see Mr. Forester and they had had an opening that morning. This kind of man would usually make people wait, unless he was not usually asked for by name.

"Mr. Watson, what can I do for you?" the man asked looking up from his computer and at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at his slightly crooked tie and wondered what he had interrupted. "I have some money saved up that I would like to put in the stock market. I was hoping you could help me invest it wisely."

Mr. Forester looked uninterested. "How much?"

"Fifty thousand pounds." Sherlock had taken the liberty of swiping Mycroft's bank account number and making a transfer into an account he had just opened earlier that day. Mycroft would be furious but Sherlock was sure he would forgive him. Mycroft always did.

Mr. Forester looked more interested and pulled a folder out of his desk. "Well we have a variety of low risk options here. We would, of course, invest your money under the company name. It would be put it into a pot so if your stocks fall we can reimburse you, the catch is, when you sell your stocks, ten percent of the profits you make will go back to us. The other option we have is to have the money invested in bonds and have twenty percent of the interest paid to us while eighty percent of the interest gets deposited into the account of your choice. When the bond is paid off, all the money, will of course, go to you." He paused and smiled at Sherlock. "But we can guarantee you won't lose a penny."

This sounded like a money laundering scheme, and if this is where people in the know when to get their money laundered, no wonder a time slot had opened up for Sherlock. There must be some big players who needed to move money fast. And if all the investments were held by the company, it would be impossible to trace who had made them unless you got a hold of the companies banking records, which were probably doctored to look legitimate.

Sherlock thought this all over as he signed up to have his money invested in bonds, generally more stable, and had the profits deposited to a Swiss bank account he had opened for fun a couple of years back with no intention of using it until now. He still knew the routing number and account number of the top of his head. Sherlock would still check out the other suspects, but so far Allen Forester seemed to be the mostly likely stepping stone to murder. Had Gavin gotten the names of who he was laundering money for?

John was making himself a sandwich when Sherlock got back. "I just committed financial fraud using Mycroft's money and your name. I hope you don't mind."

John paused, the sandwich halfway to his mouth, and looked like he was going to tell Sherlock off for a moment but then changed his mind. It was pointless. "Did anything come of it?" he asked, taking a large bite.

"I found out that Allen Forester launders money, a lot of money. If Gavin had a hold of his baking records he would probably make the connection to his company. I suspect that Mr. Forester laundered money for the other four men with the large bank accounts. It is the only connection I could find so far. And he knows enough big players that he opens his schedule for anyone who asks for him by name. Obviously, he is someone other people are told to go to by people in the know. On the company website he is at the bottom of the list, probably to stop most members of the public from asking about him. They would probably go with one of the eight names above his. And there are no recommendations for him on the internet. In fact you get very few search results when you Google him. He wants to stay off the radar." Sherlock stole a pickle of John's plate and popped it into his mouth. John looked at him with wordless indignation on his face before taking a deep breath and composing himself.

"You go to the office of a man who launders money for very dangerous people, who might be dangerous himself, and you use my name. My name to launder money you stole from a senior member of the government! And you didn't ask first! I could be arrested or killed!" John was breathing heavily by the end of this outburst.

"Well I didn't know he was dangerous when I went in, and I couldn't use my real name, my brother works in the government and mine is on my website, he could make the connection." Sherlock explain this in such a matter of fact way that John wondered if he had considered the possible implications for him at all.

"But if things go wrong, if he thinks that you were a bit dodgy, if he does a background check he is going to come looking for me." John put the sandwich aside and glared at John. "I am in the phonebook!"

"Well, if he does turn up he will see you look nothing like me and you can feign ignorance. He is dealing with criminals after all. I don't think identity theft is uncommon." Sherlock sat on the couch looking rather pleased with himself. He obviously was convinced he had thought of everything. "And what are you in the phone book for? That is how telemarketers find you."

John sighed. "The money you stole from Mycroft, what account did you put it in?"

"The one I opened this morning in your name."

"You can't open an account in my name! You need my National Insurance Number, for one."

"GR 34 84 20 B. I looked it up when you left your wallet on the table one day. Careless to keep your card in your wallet. Oh, and I have a copy of your passport with my picture on it." He held up the exquisite forgery for John to see.

John was not amused. "Planning to steal my identity, are you?"

Sherlock looked a little hurt. "Not at all. I can get you a copy of my passport with your picture in it if you want."

"After that incident with the Chinese circus I never want to have anything on me which identifies me as you ever again. You piss too many people off!" John walked into his room and slammed the door. His half-eaten sandwich was left on the table. Sherlock did not understand what he was making the fuss about.

It was hard to find a criminal or suspected criminal that Forester did not launder money for. People would even come from overseas to have him put their money for a series of shell companies. The paper trail was staggering. Harry delivered a list of people and companies that money went through and Sherlock spent the day researching them all. He had to find the one that Gavin had stumbled on to. The boy would not have been hacking into bank accounts unless he found something suspicious, of that much, he was certain about Gavin. Sherlock had learned from the printed out e-mail between Gavin and Plague that Gavin wanted to learn computer hacking because he was already suspicious, not just for the hell of it. What company had Gavin found to be hollow?

After going through all the companies and people and building up a mental profile of each one, Sherlock started reading the diary that he had found in the desk drawer. It was an account of each of Gavin's days: what he ate, what he did, where he went. Overall it was dull reading. Gavin had needed a job and had been having trouble finding one. He had gotten to the point where he was looking up random companies in the phone book and calling to see if they needed a tea boy. On the seventeenth day of going through the phone book a page a day, all mentions of the job search stopped. Sherlock read on. His entries were strange now, less specific, and he did not make one every day. He was studying for is A Levels, they were hard. He was going out to see if a building existed in real life, he didn't say what building. He was going to look at the public records to see if there were even blue prints for such a building. There was a break of over a week and then he talked about the banking system and money laundering.

"But which one did you find?" Sherlock asked the diary as if hoping it would answer back.

He had looked at bank accounts and found out the company was used to finance something much, bigger much. He was painfully vague, almost as if he was afraid that someone would find the diary and use it against him. It was frustrating to read the veiled hints and obscure clues. It tortured Sherlock to know that if he only had one word, this would all make sense. He had not been this excited since Moriarty sent him those pips. Gavin had followed the money and started looking into the "CEO"'s of the fake company, who were making more money than they should. One by one he hacked into their hard drives, finding more incriminating evidence. He had begun to look into police reports to try and figure out how to go presenting this information about to the police. He had found the phrase "consulting detective". He found out about Sherlock. There was a flattering passage about Sherlock's intellect and infallible methods. He hacked Sherlock's computer. Sherlock would have to get his firewall overhauled. Gavin wanted to copy his methods and apply them to this case. Gavin had gone too far.

A section of pages had been torn out.

Gavin was in danger and he knew it. He hid the bank account files on his computer and the physical evidence in a box. If he died, he wanted Sherlock Holmes on the case.

The last entry was a series of numbers.

116-117 4645 4-17-12

Sherlock threw the diary aside in frustration. Picked it up, memorized the numbers, and then threw it aside again.

He had another fan, a teenaged fan, a now dead fan. This fan wanted to be a detective but the first puzzle he tried to solve was big, too big. This fan tried playing at being a detective and was killed for it, Sherlock was certain of this. The only problem was the list of possible suspects was too big. Sherlock had to narrow them down. Gavin had been calling up companies in the phone book when his life had been normal, looking for a job. He was doing a page a day. On the seventeenth day he stopped. Who had he called?

Sherlock did not have a phone book in the house, he had all the numbers he needed memorized. He ran out the door just as John was walking in. John looked surprised.

"Just getting a phone book," Sherlock called over his shoulder before dashing out the door and down the street.

"Case must be going well then," John said to no one in particular.

John was sitting on the couch watching TV when Sherlock reentered. He was holding a phone book and looking gleeful. "Found what you were looking for then?" asked John.

"Dawson Cleaning Services," said Sherlock breathlessly. "That is the company Gavin found out Dawson cleaning services! Give me your phone."

John looked slightly annoyed, "What's wrong with your phone?"

"It's in the bedroom, give me yours." Resignedly, John handed over his phone. Sherlock dialed a number and then listened, his face lit up. He did this three more times, he mouth split into a grin. He was almost skipping about the room. "Oh Gavin, you clever boy." He handed the phone back to John and clapped his hand together. "Oh you clever, clever boy. Not many people would have noticed that."

"Noticed what? What have you found out?" John looked intrigued.

"The company, Dawson Cleaning Services, it has four numbers for four different offices, four! But all the numbers got to the same answering machine with the same recorded message. It sounds generic enough, but if you listen closely, very closely, you can hear in the back ground a siren. It's faint, but it's there. And the same message with the same siren in the background is what you get directed to no matter what number you call. And, here is the good bit; the message is something that a normal person would not listen to. A normal person would hang up and try another place. The message tells you the offices are closed and to please call back during regular office hours Monday through Friday, 9am to 5pm." Sherlock looked like he had just told John Christmas had come early, like he was handing John the best present money could buy.

"So," John began and then he spotted the clock on the mantel piece and he understood. "But we are calling during normal business hours. It is 4:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday."

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "I bet if we go the address, we won't find anyone there."

He was running out the door again. Sherlock grabbed his jumper and followed.

The address had indeed been a fake one. They just found an abandoned building with Dawson Cleaning Services painted on it in peeling yellow paint. They later found out that the company had gone out of business in 1978, and the building had been bought by the Gordon Corporation, a shell company that Quality Investments Inc. had created in 1966. This had been going on for a long time.

"So Gavin found out the company wasn't real, and then hacked their bank accounts to prove it?" asked John, who was sitting at a table surfing the internet.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, they had been over this many times. "Then he started investigating the supposed CEO's of the companies and found they were the same people over and over again. "The five people whose account we first had given to us Dennis Suffick, Mark Richmond, Allen Forester, Marty Morris and Fred Hunt. And then four names whose accounts Gavin did not have on his computer: Solomon Gernse, Adam Worth, Charles Summerton and Sebastian Simmons. They had turned their investigation to focus on the CEO's and to try and figure out which one of them Gavin had come in contact with.

The numbers were a dead end. It was clear the last group was a locker number and combination to a lock, but Sherlock could not decipher 116-117 in order to find where the locker was hidden. This aggravated him to no end.

The CEO's were a tricky bunch as well. He had only been able to find information on Suffick, Forester, Hunt, Morris, and Summerton, and of those four he could not find a picture online for Morris or Hunt. He only knew what five of them looked like because he had visited them. He was beginning to wonder if the other men even existed. Gavin had mentioned material evidence, but where was it? Maybe in that locker that Sherlock could not find.

Lestrade had not been informed of Sherlock and John's activities. Did he want to help? No. They managed to arrest Bob. Good. What was he working on? A project. Sherlock had stopped answering his phone so Lestrade sent Donovan over to see if they were still alive. She found Sherlock playing the violin and John wearing noise reducing head phones as he made lunch. She looked disappointed they were alive and Sherlock told Lestrade not to worry about him and he would let the DI know when he was free again.

But Sherlock was stuck once more and he was frustrated. He had stalled, there were no new leads, the problem consumed him day and night, but no matter how many times he went over the information and looked up the companies he could not figure out how they had found out about Gavin. Maybe they noticed a breach in the firewall and traced the IP address. But then how did he know he was in danger. Sherlock had hit a brick wall and it was driving him mad. John was frustrated too. It had been a while since Sherlock had paid any attention to him and most of his advances were met with "Not now, I'm thinking." Sherlock had not eaten more than an apple in three days and John wondered if he was even sleeping, as Sherlock was always up before John and went to bed after him. Sherlock was obsessed. John was horny.

John closed his computer with a snap and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was lying on the couch with his hands pressed together and a nicotine patch on the back of one of them. He was wordlessly mouthing something. He had been doing that for an hour. John had had enough. He walked over to the couch and stood over Sherlock. Sherlock opened one eye to look at him. "Yes?"

"You are taking a break," John declared. Sherlock looked as if he did not understand what he was saying. "First you are going to have some dinner because you are beginning to look like you just escaped from Auschwitz, and second, if you have the energy and are up for it, we are going to shag. You said you would meet my needs and they have not been met for some time. And third, or second depending on how you feel, you are going to sleep."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment questioningly. "Why are you suddenly giving orders?"

"Because as a doctor, I can no longer watch you starve yourself like this. You are going to have dinner and you are going to like it because I know you need a mystery to keep your brain happy, but you need food to keep your body happy." John walked into the kitchen and brought Sherlock a plate of mashed potatoes, sausages, and some boiled veggies. "Now eat," John said in his best imitation of his former drill sergeant. It seemed to work as Sherlock sat up and then methodically proceeded to clear the plate of food. His body was hungry even is his mind was ignoring this fact. Watson ate his own meal more slowly and then read the evening paper in silence as Sherlock went back to thinking in his odd way, with his hands pressed together as if in prayer.

After an hour Watson went over to the couch again and looked down at Sherlock. Again Sherlock only opened on eye to look at him. "Sex or sleep?" Watson asked stroking Sherlock's hair back. He didn't like being this forward, but if Sherlock had frankly asked to meet his needs, then John could frankly ask that they be met. It did not feel very romantic, though.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Sex," he said decisively. He could think during sex. He got up and walked up the stairs to Watson's bedroom, taking his shirt off on the way. "You coming?" he called back to John who had not moved.

John hurried up the stairs to find a naked Sherlock stand at the end of his bed. John had brought up two bowls of chocolate pudding "Dessert for after", and after removing all of his clothes pushed Sherlock down on the bed kissing him fiercely. Sherlock was agreeable as John sucked on his neck while slowly parting Sherlock's legs. Lube changed hands and Sherlock pulled John in for a long kiss before moving his mouth to John's ear. "Sorry for ignoring you," he whispered before nibbling his ear in a way he knew would drive John crazy.

John sighed happily and his hand slid down to massage Sherlock's member. "I can never stay mad at you for some reason," he whispered back. A moment later John was rocking inside Sherlock, Sherlock was lifting his hips to meet John, and they were soon making incoherent noises and swearing. They had gotten to the point where they knew exactly how to drive the other person wild and after a yell of "Oh Fuck!" from John when Sherlock tweaked his nipple and a prolonged moan form Sherlock when John hit him just right, they collapsed in a sweating, sticky tangle of limbs. Sherlock felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. John's heart felt like it was trying to pound out its way out of John's chest and into his.

When John caught his breath he sat up and reached across Sherlock to the side table. "Pudding?" he offered holding out a green mug full of chocolate pudding to Sherlock who took at and a spoon.

"Doctor's orders, I presume," Sherlock mused.

John nodded "We really need to fatten you up." and tried a spoonful of his own. Sherlock finished the pudding and was lying with John in his arms when he felt his brain start to slow down. It wasn't unpleasant, just unusual. John must have put a sleeping pill in mine, he thought before drifting into oblivion. When Sherlock's breathing had settled into a slow rhythm, John propped himself up on one arm and looked down at him. It was the first time he had ever seen the other man sleep. He kissed Sherlock on the forehead, pulled the blanket on them both.


	7. Jailbird

Again, I own nothing.

The next morning Sherlock awoke to bright sunlight shining in through the window. This was odd as his room had thick curtains to keep light out. But he was not in his room, he was in John's. He was also in need of a shower. This was a first for him. His mind was running slower than usual was well. Slowly, like he had to fish the memory out of molasses, he remembered how John had spiked the pudding the night before with a tranquilizer.

Sherlock cursed inwardly, he was functional, barely, but he did not think he would make any progress on the case today. He had the strange feeling that someone had stuffed his head with cotton balls and he had to check the clock twice because he could not remember what time it was or keep track of the passage of time with his usual precision. It took him five minutes to get out of bed. He changed the sheets before heading to the bathroom for a cold shower. He hoped the freezing water would wake him up enough to function at his usual capacity.

It was around lunch time when he finally walked into the living room dressed and ready to deal with the day. His balance was a little off, but not so much that he could not hide it with effort. Watson was sorting through mail at the kitchen table and looked up as Sherlock walked to his usual spot on the couch.

"Want a sandwich?" John asked.

"No," replied Sherlock not looking at him. He was slowly going through all the facts in his head, but they were slipping away from him as soon as he turned his mind to different one. This was unacceptable. His organized hard drive has dissolved into soup.

"Tea?" John persisted.

"No."

"Water?"

"If I want anything, I'll get it myself," Sherlock snapped. John was surprised. Sherlock was incredibly lazy when it can to getting things that he deemed unimportant, and he was never in a bad mood in the mornings. Sherlock was the definition of a morning person in John's eyes. He looked like he was trying to bore a hold in the ceiling with his eyes.

"Everything alright?" John asked timidly.

"Never drug me again." Sherlock replied shortly. So he had remembered that.

"You needed sleep and it shouldn't be affecting you thins morning."

"Well it is."

John was taken aback, but he had only given Sherlock a single adult does. Maybe he had overestimated his weight or the affect it would have on someone who had not eaten in days. He wondered how much it was still affecting Sherlock, but he was too afraid to ask. "Maybe you should just sleep it off," John suggested.

Sherlock did not answer him. He continued to glare at the ceiling without speaking. "Or we could pass the time until you are back to normal in other ways," John suggested hopefully.

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly said that if he tried to touch him, John would be in a world of pain. John looked away, glad that Sherlock could not shoot lasers from his eyes. He would be dead if that were the case. "What exactly is wrong?" asked John, maybe he was experiencing a side effect that he could sort out.

"My brain is foggy. I can't do my work!" John thought it best not to press the issue any further; he had probably given Sherlock to large of a dosage. He went back to sorting through the mail: a postcard from his Aunt, a letter from the bank, some bills, and a credit card offer. Not a super exciting haul, but not bad. Athens looked nice. Half-an-hour later Sherlock had not moved and was still staring at the ceiling. Waves of hostility were rolling off of him. John had to get some fresh air.

"I am going to sort out something at my bank and have dinner with Harry, I'll be back by ten tonight." Sherlock did not respond. John quickly put on his coat and shoes, and left without saying another word.

Sherlock lay there for a while, but it was no use, his brain was cloudy and the facts were floating around his head and drifted away whenever he tried to focus on one. John had probably been right, he should just sleep it off; there was nothing else to do. He went into his room, locked the door so John would not know he had taken his advice, and passed out almost as soon as he was under the covers.

When Sherlock awoke the sun was setting and the apartment was still silent. He went into the kitchen to find a glass of water. He was not completely back to normal, but his thinking was clearer, if a bit slow, and this was acceptable for now. For some reason he did not feel like getting back to the case right away and decided to go through the mail instead. He might be able to take out a credit card in John's name. John's Aunt was not having a good time in Greece, her hand was too shaky, they had a few bills that Sherlock would pay later, and John had to go verify something about his account. They were trying to prevent identity fraud or something. Sherlock smirked before he noticed the address at the top of the letter.

Halifax Bank

116-117 Marylebone High Street,

London W1U 4DP

Sherlock knew that something about this address was important, but he did not know what. Something in his mind was fighting its way through the syrup that filed his mind, something he had made a point to remember. Something about the case and this address were linked. Why had John chosen last night to drug him with those stupid pills? He did not need more than six hours of sleep a night and usually he could function perfectly well on four. Sleep was wasted time. Sleep was not important. Sleep was boring. Sleep was –

116-117 4645 4-17-12

Sherlock froze. Had he just found what the numbers were referring too? Banks, all banks, well at least most banks, had safety deposit boxes. Was this the information needed to find the safety deposit box? But he needed a key. You always needed a key for these things. Gavin Newton was dead so he could pretend to be some grieved family member coming to collect the belongings, or get Harriet to let him in, but he needed a key. Where would he find Gavin's key. Had he seen it somewhere when he was going through the room? Sherlock tried to picture the room, remembering how it looked the day he had searched it: the book shelf, the messy floor, under the bed the desk, the desk drawers. He stopped. He had picked up a key when he had searched through the desk; a small one, not on a key ring. Was that the right key? It would make sense to hide it in plain sight like that. No one would think twice finding a key in Gavin's drawer, there were so many other things in there already. It was practically a junk pile.

The bank was closed, so he could not go and get it tonight, but he could get the key. He dressed quickly, his hands fumbling a little with the buttons on his coat, when would the sodding sedative be out of his system, and ran out the door, stumbling a little, to hail a cab.

Sherlock was lucky, as the Newtons were not home, and keeping his leather gloves on as not to leave prints, picked the lock and stepped inside. It took him two minutes longer than usual. Sherlock soundlessly sprinted up the stairs and into Gavin's room. He flipped the light switch and searched the desk for the key. It was a rubbish pit, and since he did not remember exactly where he put the key down he methodically went through the drawers one by one. He ignored the sound of a car pulling up, the front door did not rattle so he assumed it was the neighbors. He heard another car pull up a little while later, but he was quickly distracted as he found what he was looking for. The door opened and he heard someone running up the stairs. He looked around but the window was locked and he would not be able to get out that way, there was a strait drop onto the driveway and the drugs were still slowing his system. Maybe he could talk himself out of this. That sometimes worked. He slipped the key into his trouser pocket and turned to face the door as it opened.

Sgt. Donovan looked surprised for a moment and then smiled. "Well, well, well, branched out to burglary, have we?"

Sherlock took a step towards her, about to speak. Sally raised her gun and pointed it at his chest. "Hands above your head and face the wall."

"Are you really going to arrest me?" Sherlock asked. He could not stop the annoyance from entering his voice.

Sally smiled sweetly. "It will be the highlight of my week."

Sherlock sighed and turned to face the wall, his hands behind his head. He should have stayed celibate, sex and relationships just got you into trouble. Just because Sally had beaten him on an exam, he had to go and get to know her. It had only been by two points. "The family came home to see a light on and called the police to report a burglary," Sally said as she put a handcuff around Sherlock's left wrist and closing it a little too tightly. Sherlock cursed himself for not thinking of this and using a flashlight. John and his stupid drugs. "I am so glad I found you instead." She cuffed the right wrist just as tightly as the first. "Let's go then!"

She swung Sherlock around, and, gripping his arm firmly, steered him down the stairs and out the front door. The family was anxiously waiting on the lawn. They stared at Sherlock as he was lead out. Sally stopped to talk to them, still gripping Sherlock's arm, obviously wanting to draw out the arrest as long as possible. He saw Anderson standing a few feet away.

"Nothing to worry about," Sally said reassuringly, "it's just your friendly neighborhood psychopath, Sherlock Holmes. We got him before he took anything."

A look of recognition flashed across the face of the girl, probably around sixteen or seventeen, Gavin's younger sister, Sherlock guessed. Did she send the letter? The Mr. Newton stepped forward to shake Sally's hand. "Thank you so much, Sgt. Donovan," he said.

"Just doing my job," she said modestly and then led Sherlock to the car. She roughly shoved him in the back seat. "We are going to have a hoot when we get to the station."

Sherlock was grumpy. He was sitting in a cell, legs drawn up to his chest, trying to touch as little as possible. He shared this cell with a fat, bearded man who was passed out on a bench opposite him, snoring, and a muscular man who was all tattoo and had a shave head. "Alright there, pretty boy?" the tattooed man asked menacingly.

Sherlock did not look at or speak to him; he was too busy trying to figure out what the other officers were doing. They had patted him down, taken away his keys, wallet, and phone, the safety deposit box key with them, let him make a phone call, John was not answering his cell phone, and then stuck him in the cell. Anderson told him that he would probably be there until morning. They had also taken some blood for a drug test. He assumed this was Sally being unpleasant. They were going to have him pee in a cup, but when he point blank refused to remove any clothing in front on Anderson, they jabbed a syringe in his arm and got it that way. He rubbed the spot on his arm gingerly. There would probably be a bruise there. He already had two light bruises forming from the too tight handcuffs.

Every thirty minutes Anderson would come by and see how he was doing, usually by yelling an insult at him, but his eyes often strayed to the tattooed man and Sherlock deduced that he was making sure Sherlock was not attacked while in his custody. It was nice to know they were not completely vindictive. Judging by the dried blood on the bald man's boots, Sherlock assumed he was there for assault. Why they had put him with a drunk and violent offender, he did not know.

There was a camera pointed at the cell and both Sherlock and the bald man knew it. Nothing would happen that would get them a possible conviction while the camera was on. The bald man seemed to enjoy passing the time by harassing Sherlock. Sherlock ignored his veiled threats and innuendos. He knew he was relatively safe and the bald man did not try to go over to his side of the cell.

Time ticked on. Around four in the morning, the bald man fell asleep, propped against the bars. Sherlock barely moved. His mind was back to normal, and running at full speed. He did not feel like sleeping or lying down. The bench was disgusting. He hoped Watson would get him out first thing in the morning. He wanted to get a look at the contents of Gavin's safety deposit box.

At precisely five minutes after seven, Sherlock could see the clock on the wall; he heard voices coming down the hall. From the sound of it D.I. Lestrade was arguing with someone. Sherlock could not believe who it was.

"And I trust that my brother will be released immediately, without any more shenanigans from your officers," Mycroft was saying in that forceful tone he used when he did not want to be argued with. "As the family decided not to press charges as soon as they realized he had not taken anything, he should have been released. And as he was only found breaking and entering, a drug test was totally uncalled for, and, furthermore, what were your officers thinking of putting an attempted burglary suspect in the same cell as a man in here for battery, and another man in here for sexual assault."

They came into view. DI Lestrade looked like he had been woken up for too early for his liking and, while he agreed with a lot of what Mycroft was saying, he was too annoyed at being bothered this early to admit it. The woman who followed Mycroft around, Sherlock had not learned her name, was following a couple steps behind, typing on her Blackberry as always. "And, if this comes to court, we can have it thrown out as the arresting officer, the one who made the report, used to be involved with my brother and is prejudiced since their relationship fell apart badly."

Lestrade looked surprised, this was news to him. Sherlock glared at Mycroft. He liked to keep his personal life private; it was no one's business what he did with whom. He hated Mycroft and his surveillance.

Mycroft did not pay attention to their reactions and continued on. "This is obviously a personal vendetta more than an actual arrest."

The other cell mates had woken up now and were looking at Sherlock with interest. This was not usually how people left the holding cells. Lestrade went to the door and held it open. "Come on, Sherlock," he said tiredly. Sherlock left without a backwards glance it his cell mates.

Mycroft was studying him carefully, looking for signs of abuse. He spotted Sherlock's wrists and grabbed Sherlock by the forearm to shove the wrist in Lestrade's face. Sherlock winced, that was the arm they had taken the blood from. "Look at that bruise, the handcuffs were obviously too tight. I want that photographed. Sherlock, why did you wince just now?" Mycroft was looking at him closely. Sherlock sighed. He could be far too overprotective sometimes.

"I am a bit sore where they took some blood for the drug test. I do not believe Anderson has any medical experience," Sherlock replied, sulkily. He just wanted to get out of there and to that box.

"Show me," Mycroft snapped. Sherlock rolled up his sleeve to show Mycroft the small bruise on his forearm. "I want that photographed too."

A harassed and defeated DI Lestrade showed them into his office. Sherlock and Mycroft took seats across from Lestrade. The nameless woman leaned against the wall, eyes glued to her phone. Sherlock studied the office as Mycroft proceeded to detail every part of police procedure that had been violated and what Lestrade could do to correct it. Lestrade looked slightly amused and horrified to find that Mycroft was just as observant and intelligent as his younger brother. Everything he was saying was absolutely correct, it was almost as if he had memorized the police procedural handbook before he got there. Oh my god, there are two of them, Lestrade found himself thinking.

There was a silence when Mycroft had finished speaking. Lestrade sighed. "Wendy, could you bring me a strong cup of tea, and then tell Donovan and Anderson I want to see them as soon as they arrive?" Lestrade called.

"Yes, sir," was the reply and about ten minutes later a pot of tea, four mugs, and a small jug of milk were sat on Lestrade's desk. When Lestrade had poured them all tea he leaned back in his chair.

"Mr. Holmes, I agree with everything you have said. I did not know about Sherlock and Donovan's previous relationship, but I will be looking into how the arrest was handled last night. I will let your brother go, but I do need to ask him a few questions first."

Mycroft looked satisfied and nodded in approval. Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "What were you doing at the Newton residence?"

"Working on a case," Sherlock replied, making an effort to keep the sullenness out of his voice. "Someone in the family asked me to investigate Gavin Newton's death. I was looking for clues."

"Do you know who?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade waited for a minute and then gave up. "Well no one in the family said they hired you, but as they dropped the charges as soon as they found out who you were, I think you are telling the truth. Your drug test came back positive for Amobarbital. This is a controlled substance, how did it get into your system?"

Sherlock cursed John once again. This whole incident was John's fault. "John decided that I wasn't sleeping enough and slipped it into my desert the night before last," he admitted, sullenly.

"Probably wanted some peace and quiet in the flat, it must be hard living with a psychopath." They turned around to see Sgt. Donovan standing in the doorway. Sherlock glared at her, Lestrade looked very tired, Mycroft was unreadable, and the mysterious woman showed a polite interest. "I heard you wanted to see me."

"Yes, yes I did," Lestrade said closing the folder on his desk. "Mr. Holmes, it was nice to have met you. Sherlock is free to go; you can collect his belongings on the way out."

Mycroft nodded to Lestrade and then walked out followed by Sherlock and the woman. Donovan sat down in the chair Sherlock had just vacated.

Donovan was still angry, after all this time. Sherlock wondered whether she would hate him forever. Sherlock was distracted from this thought when his belongings were returned to him and he was reminded of the key. That game was afoot again!

When they got into the car, Sherlock was stuck next to the woman with Mycroft sitting across from him. "What the hell do you think you were thinking breaking into a house like that?" He sapped at Sherlock. Sherlock was aware that Mycroft hated having a family member who brought negative attention to the family like that, mummy would not be happy when Mycroft told her.

Sherlock did not say anything, but looked out the window. He would be dropped off at his home soon enough, and then Mycroft would go back to running the world, or whatever he did in his spare time. Eat cake or something. The woman sitting next to him had not said a word the whole trip. Sherlock wondered for a moment if she was involved with his brother, and then decided he did not want to know. The thought of Mycroft in the throes of passion was an unpleasant one. He did however notice that she was receiving a lot of texts for Marina. Was that her real name? She looked up when she caught Sherlock trying to read what was on her phone and he looked out the window again.

They were almost back at Baker's Street. They stopped the car and Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hand before he could leave. "Just try and make sure you don't get into anymore trouble with this case you are working on," he said before letting go.

Sherlock ignored him. He did not take Sherlock's work seriously. He always thought that Sherlock was still playing games and needed to grow up. Sherlock had the same opinion about what Mycroft did in his spare time. World domination, he should try and be more original.

But Sherlock was back in high spirits as he walked up the stairs. He would find John making breakfast as usual, declare that he had made a breakthrough, make John abandon his food to come with him to the bank. He would not explain anything and he would go just too fast for John to walk, he was still a little cross about being drugged, but they would go see what Gavin had hidden in that safety deposit box and possibly end up running for their lives, something Sherlock suspected John rather enjoyed. He set his face into stony determination as he entered the flat.

"John, grab your coat, we are going to the bank," he called as he strode in. The flat was empty. Nothing had been moved since last night. This was unusual as John said he would be back by ten. Maybe he was sleeping. Sherlock crept up the stairs to check John's room but it was empty and the bed had not been slept in.

Sherlock's first irrational thought was that John was sleeping over at some woman's house, but that was ridiculous. John was insanely loyal and had not mentioned going out on a date with a woman in over a month. As Harry was his sister and a lesbian, the two of them going out to dinner was probably not going to turn into a date. Sherlock had what officers called a "gut feeling" that something bad had happened but he quashed it. Those hunches never helped. Emotion just got in the way when you had a problem to solve; it is why he had dedicated himself to cold logic. So far he found no evidence that John was in any danger, the most logical explanation was that he and Harry had had a few drinks and John had slept over at her place.

All the same he texted John. "Urgent that you meet me, found possible lead." John would text him back when he woke up and Sherlock would make him run across town for something. It wasn't the first time John had been too drunk to come home. This had happened a lot when he had been seeing Sarah.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. He turned his mind to the mystery at hand and almost instantly felt the key burning in his pocket. He would go to the bank.


	8. Bringing Sexy Back

I own nothing.

Sherlock arrived at the bank and asked to see Harriet. She was usually right on time for work and would probably let him into the safety deposit boxes. Since they asked her to help out with the bank accounts, she had taken quite a liking to the idea of being a detective.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Watson had not come in today," a girl at the counter told him. Did she know when Ms. Watson would be in? No, she had not called to say that she was going to be late, which was very unusual. Was there anything she could do to help in the meantime? Sherlock quashed the unease that had shot up in his gut again and remember the few acting classes he had been forced to take as a child. His parents thought they would help him and Mycroft be more social. Sherlock had hated them at the time, but he now found acting had its uses. He slowly looked at the woman with sad, troubled eyes.

"I am here to collect the belongings of my cousin, Gavin Newton. He recently passed away and no one else in the family could bear to come and get them," he paused, as if struggling to keep his composure. "We recently found out he kept a safety deposit box, and we are trying to put all his affairs in order." He pulled the key out of his pocket and placed it on the counter. "The box in number 4645 and I know the combination." He did his best impression of a grieving relative trying to maintain a stiff upper lip, it helped to try and pretend you had no feelings but were sad at the same time. It came easily to him.

The girl looked moved. "Of course we can help you, right this way, Mr. -?"

"Newton, Dexter Newton." He smiled at her a little shakily. "Thank you for helping me; making this as painless as possible for me and my family."

She led Sherlock into a back room. "Just sign your name on the dotted line here," she said kindly. Sherlock did so, and she helped him to the deposit box. They opened the slot to take out the box with both keys and then she left Sherlock alone. Privacy was valued when it came to these things, something he was grateful about. Sherlock quickly entered the combination and opened the box. Inside was a small shoe box. Sherlock quickly grabbed it and shut the safe deposit box. He thanked the woman, and left the bank as quickly as possible.

When he got home there was still no sigh of John, John and Harry must have had a lot to drink last night, but he had a box. A box that hopefully would tell him who or what had happened to notify the company of Gavin and get him killed. The box was small, but size was not important, what was inside is what mattered. With steady hands, though his heart was beating fast, Sherlock lifted the lid of the box. Inside were hand written notes, photographs, and the torn pages from the diary and a couple of items including his debit card for the bank that Sherlock had just grabbed the safety deposit box from, probably so if his pursuers searched his room they would not be lead strait to the bank. Gavin had obviously worked hard to track down all the CEO's, for each one, paper clipped a set of hand written notes and photos together, he had pictures of them, their home, their cars, and their offices. He flipped through each of these packets carefully.

Apart from the fact that Gavin could have been convicted of stalking, nothing was sinister about these photos. He did not find anything to intrigue or alarm him. They were taken from a distance and it did not look like any of the subjects had noticed anything. Sherlock was almost disappointed until he reached the last packet of photos. This focused on the man Adam Worth. Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat and his breath catch as he looked down on at the face of Moriarty, and into a pair of cold eyes that seemed to be staring directly at him. His heart skipped a beat.

But they weren't staring at him, Moriarty could not see him, this was only a photo. But Moriarty had seen the photographer. Moriarty had seen Gavin taking a photo of him as Moriarty did not like to be the center of attention. It was possible that this photo had signed Gavin's death certificate. Sherlock stared at the photo for a long time. He had not seen that face since the night he had grossly underestimated his adversary and John had been strapped with explosives. He briefly found himself unable to act.

A moment later he calls John. John does not pick up his phone. Sherlock pauses for a moment, and then, quite unusually calls Mycroft. Mycroft picks up on the first ring.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"I know you have me under surveillance. Do you know where Watson went last night or where he is now?" Sherlock asked without pretence.

There was a pause and some conversation Sherlock could not make out as Mycroft consulted with Marina. "No, but we can let you know if we find out. We know John went to go see his sister at the bank yesterday afternoon and then they went to her house. We have no information on Doctor Watson's movements after that."

Sherlock took in this information. "Thanks," was his only reply. He hung up the phone. This was not a comforting development.

Sherlock went back to the table and took the paper clip off the last stack of papers. He removed the top photo of Moriarty and looked through them trying to memorize every detail. Moriarty getting into a silver Lexus, all the CEO's had pictures of them with this type of car. He memorized the license plate, LE60FRG, and then moved on; this was the only photo where the license plate of the car had been visible. Next was Moriarty entering an office, it was definitely in London, and then a factory, Swanson Bath Products, the factory was in a rundown part of town with a few abandoned buildings around, and last a picture of him coming out of a large town house, almost identical to the one on 10 Downing Street the Prime Minister lives in. There were no more photos, just some hand written notes that Gavin had made, mostly things that Sherlock already knew.

He leaned back in a chair, applied a nicotine patch, and let out a deep breath. Gavin had discovered that Moriarty was part of a large fraud and Moriarty liked to stay above the fray. He did not want anyone to be able to connect him directly to any crime group. He had that consulting criminal business to run. As he told Sherlock, nobody got to him. But Gavin had, if only by accident. It would ruin his reputation. That is why Gavin had been killed. Moriarty had found out about his knowledge and decided to do something about it.

But how had he known Moriarty was after him? Did he see Moriarty looking back and get scared? Did he find out what the other man did for a living? Did Moriarty play his little games with Gavin? He wanted to run this all by John. E paced around the flat. So where was Moriarty now? How could they convict him? How had he pulled off Gavin's murder?

Sherlock grabbed the case file and examined the pictures again. It was obvious Gavin had been killed in another location, he did not yet know where, and then he had been somehow smuggled into the mall and left to be found the next morning, not dead, but severely brain damaged. Gavin had been following the CEO's around; it would not be hard to arrange to have him grabbed. But he was suspicious at this point so he might have been threatened into meeting them. Was this why he hid all his files so well and stored the box where few people would look? And then getting him into the mall, how had Moriarty gotten the body there? The surveillance cameras around the perimeter had not picked up anything and that left the roof and the sewers. The roof was unlikely as a helicopter would have drawn attention to him, but the sewers? Sherlock looked up the mall online and found a few picture of an underground car park. There was a man hole visible in the corner was one of them. Sherlock knew that he did not have proof but decided to go with the assumption that he was correct. He looked up a map of sewers around London. They crisscrossed the grid, almost like paths, added to the tunnels used for the underground; it was possible to traverse London without stepping on the surface if you had the proper equipment. Sherlock would have to investigate this one day.

But where was he killed? Where was he killed? Sherlock scanned the map for a place that was secluded, dark, and where a murder could take place without anyone noticing. It had to have discrete sewer access. Swanson Bath Products. Sherlock saw that on the map that it was indeed abandoned and a main sewer line ran right under it. That had to be the place. It was only just outside of London, it would not have been a long drive.

Sherlock's phone rang and he picked it up after three rings. It was Mycroft. "Hello?"

"It appears your friend John Watson was last seen getting into a Silver Lexus, license plate LE60TRY, with his sister and two unknown men. We don't know where he went after that, you are the one we focus our surveillance after all. I hope that helps." Mycroft sounded a bit worried; he knew Sherlock tried to talk to him as little as possible.

"It does." Sherlock hung up the phone and slowly put it down on the table. He was visibly shaking. He felt paralyzed. All of the CEO's had silver Lexus's. It made sense that their organization used them. But how had they found out? Had Harriet been careful with her bank inquiries? Had thought he was suspicious and set out to find John Watson for questioning? If Moriarty was involved he would know about it soon. Would the name of John Watson come across his desk and make him pause? Moriarty would remember John and would probably set some puzzle for him to solve in order to save John's life. He would not be playing that game again. He had to figure out Moriarty was up to before he had time to ask. Moriarty may not know yet, or be too busy to deal with it personally. He would deal with it personally. Where would the thugs take him? The last know person they had kidnapped had been taken to the Swanson Bath Products Factory. Sherlock grabbed his gun, shoved it in his coat pocket, and ran out the door. He only hoped he would get there in time.

John was not happy. He his hands were handcuffed behind his back and around a steel support column. He had not had anything to eat in over twelve hours, his wrists were raw and painful, and his sister, Harry, had been complaining for the last six hours. He knew people reacted differently to stress in situations like this, so he tried not to get to annoyed, but he was at the end of his rope with his sister. He wasn't happy about this situation either.

"That is the last time I help out you and that mad friend of yours!" Harry yelled for about the fiftieth time.

John sighed; unfortunately he feared it would be the last time, not because she wouldn't want to help them, but because they would be dead. He hated Sherlock for using his name when trying to invest money in that stupid company for a stupid reason. He did not care right now it had been for a case, he should have used another name. And then using Harriet to track down the accounts; someone had tracked the IP address, they had been told as much by the thugs who picked them up, and they noticed that another Watson had recently shown interest in their company. So now they were both being held, while the thugs tried to find whoever was in charge, and John was left with Harry in an abandoned building. He closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that he was back in his flat and the only reason he was handcuffed was because Sherlock had decided to try something kinky. Harry's voice was making this illusion hard to keep up in his head; he found it amazingly difficult to imagine anything sexy with his sister screaming in his ear. He soon gave up and went back to going over every detail of the case he knew: dead kid, fake companies, corrupt "CEO"'s, bank accounts, money laundering.

Depression settled over him. He might die here if he wasn't found soon, and judging by how well the murder of Gavin Newton was pulled off, he was sure, if these were the same people, they knew what they were doing. He comforted himself by saying that Sherlock would have surely figured out he was missing and would be looking for him by now. His phone, which had been left out of his reach on a table, had rung a couple of times. He wished he had paid to have the GPS option activated; he would have to invest in that in the future. But how would Sherlock know where to find him when he did not know who had kidnapped him.

"Are you even listening to me?" yelled Harriet interrupting his thoughts. Her hair was askew and a wild fire burned in her eyes. She looked a lot like John, same hair color and eyes, but was distinctly feminine. At this moment she looked like she could have breathed fire. She may have been an alcoholic, but Harriet would never go down without a fight and she was perfectly sober now. "I said, how can you be so calm?"

It was true. John was relatively calm. He did not know whether it was because he had accepted that he was going to die, or, like Mycroft had said, he liked the danger, but he did not feel as afraid as he knew he should. He turned to Harry. "Well, first, I was being shot at in Afghanistan, and then, a few weeks ago, some lunatic strapped a bomb to my chest and threatened to blow me up, so I guess being kidnapped and held captive is just another day in the life for me."

Harry stared at him for a moment in disbelief. She turned away in silence and said nothing. John supposed she had not been expecting that. He had not told anyone about the bomb jacket.

Behind them John heard a door open and some people walking towards them. As the voices came closer he recognized one the he speakers and his stomach sank. He was fucked to put it lightly. Harry noticed despair come over John's face and looked worried. "What?" She whispered.

"It's the bloody maniac who strapped a bomb to me," he said shutting his eyes and trying to imagine that he was in the apartment.

"How did you get away last time?" Harry asked.

"My friend got us out." His eyes were still closed and he was trying to remember their couch in detail.

The footsteps were closer and soon three men were standing right in front of him. "Well isn't this a lovely surprise," said an all too familiar voice filled with way to much glee. John did not look up, he kept his eyes closed. "Not happy to see me again?"

John was steadying his nerves. "No," he replied after a moment when he could look Moriarty in the eye without flinching.

"Well, that is disappointing." Moriarty turned to look at Harry. "She must be your sister. Same last name and you look alike."

One of the thugs tapped Moriarty on the shoulder and showed him something on a phone. "I just got a text back. He isn't the John Watson that invested with us."

Moriarty glanced at the phone and his face split into a wide smile. John noticed that his teeth were unnaturally white; they reminded him of bleached bones. "That man is much more fun. This one, here, is merely his puppy."

John hated that Moriarty demoted him to pet status. He was a person too, just because he could not figure out your life story by your clothing did not make him sub human. Harry was looking at John curiously. She was giving him one of those searching looks that Sherlock often gave him, and her eyes widened as she came to her realization. John hoped it was not what he thought it was, or that she didn't share. John did not want to discuss his sex life in front of Moriarty. The guy gave him the creeps. But Harry was now looking at Moriarty curiously. Had she deduced something about him? He guessed that even when faced with death, Harriet's insatiable appetite for gossip could not be quenched.

Moriarty was not paying attention to Harry, she was obviously not important to him. He kneeled down in front of Watson, who tried to move away, but was prevented by the column and the handcuffs. "We are going to have to figure out something special for Sherlock when he comes looking for you. He gets ever so earnest where you are involved; he had gotten accustomed to his lap dog." He patted John on the head.

John heard the hatred in Moriarty's voice and was confused. Where did it come from? When he had strapped the bomb to him the last time, there was a manic gleam in his eyes that made John sick to his stomach. Sure he was crazy, but that level of antagonism made John think that he had personally offended him somehow, though John could not figure out when he did this. John tried to act confident. "I am sure he is on his way, he will have realized I am gone by now."

Moriarty studied him, a pitying smile playing along his mouth. "How will he even know where you are? He won't even know who took you." Moriarty eyed John up and down, as if searched for the right placed to strike. "But we can leave him a clue, can't we? Do you think he will recognize you by your left ear?"

"Yes," John replied matter-of-factly before he could stop himself. He felt the emotions drain out of him and puddle somewhere in the pit of his stomach, his arms were numb and vibrating, he was convinced he was going to die slowly and it felt like his soul was trying to get while it still could. He felt everything and nothing at all; it was like all this was happening to someone else. For some reason he could not get the sensation of Sherlock sucking on an ear lobe out of his mind. It was filling his head when he was trying to think of some clever plan to escape. It was all he could focus on. He loved the way Sherlock's tongue could massage them at the same time his teeth were biting them. His mouth moved of its own accord. "Sherlock loves my ears."

A spasm of rage crossed Moriarty's face and he straightened up. "Take the woman to the green room and stay there," he barked. The men bodily lifted Harry, who was trying to break their toes and swearing heavily, and they went out of sight leaving John and Moriarty alone. John's soul tried harder to escape its physical restraints. He was beginning to feel light headed. Moriarty pulled out a gun.

Somewhere behind him there was a large thud as something hit the doors and then rattling as they tried to get in. Moriarty looked past John and took aim with the pistol in his hand. He had not been expecting this, but he did not look worried. There was a quiet clinking and then a click as the door sprung open. Moriarty's face broke into a smile and he looked like his birthday had come early.

"Where is he?" Sherlock hissed in a barely audible but deadly undertone.

"Oh look, mommy's come home early!" Moriarty chimed in his annoying sing-song voice. "Pleased to see me?"

Sherlock did something that John could not see, Moriarty's expression changed to mild vexation. "Oh, he's alright, he is just here." Moriarty nodded in John's direction.

There were footsteps and Sherlock came into view. He was a good ten feet from Moriarty and held a gun, stiffly in his hand. Moriarty looked quite at ease, almost as if he were playing a fun game of snakes and ladders. Sherlock's face was drawn but his eyes were blazing. Moriarty rocked back and forth on his feet, smiling. "I am so glad I didn't kill you, sexy. How did you find us so quickly?"

Sherlock fixed him with an unblinking cold stare. "Gavin Newton."

Moriarty's eyes widened in surprise, and then he laughed. It was a real laugh of pure joy, and it made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up. "You are good, just too good," he crowed. "I may have to rethink my plans for you, I am not sure I could ever kill you now that I know what you are capable of." He winked suggestively at Sherlock. "He was your first fan, you know. I did find it interesting to hear about the kid who called the police trying to expose my first murder, but I had not thought to check up on you until I talked to Gavin." His eyes looked without seeing as he recalled a fond memory. "Gavin must have been smarter than I gave him credit for, if he left a trail of bread crumbs that led you here after all these years." His face hardened and he pointed the gun at John. "But you have dug far too deep in my affairs. It's nosy! Frankly rude! So I can't let you out unscathed."

He smiled apologetically and pulled the trigger. Sherlock flinched. John felt a white hot pain slice through his ear, followed shortly by warm wetness that spread out from his head. John opened his eyes when he realized he was not dead. Sherlock made a move to go to John but Moriarty whipped his gun around to point at Sherlock. Sherlock froze. "I only hit the top of his ear; he is not going to die. It is touching you care so much for your poodle, though why you are so attached to him, I will never understand. He is nothing extraordinary." Moriarty seemed to look at Sherlock thoughtfully. "You know, you and I would have much more fun together."

There was another bang as the doors were thrown open as a large group of people ran through. The phrase "Freeze, police!" cut through the air. Hatred engulfed Moriarty's features in an instant as he turned the gun back towards John. Sherlock threw himself at Moriarty and the shot went wild, hitting the wall with a loud crack. Sherlock tried to pin Moriarty to the ground, but the other man twisted and turned like a snake, getting a hand free and using it hit Sherlock in the side of the head. Sherlock saw stars for a moment before being flipped on his back. Moriarty had him pinned. The officers were running across the empty floor towards them, but they were still yards away.

Moriarty grabbed Sherlock's scarf and used it to drag Sherlock's ear to his mouth, partially strangling Sherlock I the process. "When you get bored playing the hero detective, and you will, come and find me," he whispered, almost angrily. "I can entertain you." He slammed Sherlock's head back down and suddenly the weight was off his chest. Sherlock, too disoriented to figure out where Moriarty had gone, turned to look at John. John's shirt was now soaked in blood down one side and John was staring at him wild eyed and worried. Sherlock struggled to his feat and stumbled over to John. He was dizzy and thinking at half speed.

"Are you-?" He gasped a little hoarsely.

"Get these bloody cuff's off!"

John's command snapped Sherlock back to his senses and he moved around the pole pulling a lock pick set from his pocket. It took him a minute to get the cuffs off. John massaged his wrists and, for the first time, paid attention to the people in uniform swarming the building. He looked at Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. He seemed unable to talk. The doctor in John took over and he felt the lumps on the back of Sherlock's head and examined the light red burn forming on his neck. "I'm fine," Sherlock gasped half-heatedly pushing his fingers away, "You're bleeding."

A medical technician was soon at John's side and bandaging the ear carefully. The bullet had nicked the top. It was not a serious injury, but it looked bad as it had bleed all over the place. Sherlock just watched what was going on around him as if in a dream. DI Lestrade came over to make sure that they were okay, and told them that the man with the gun had gotten away. They had, however, found Harry unharmed and arrested the two thugs with her. There were a lot of red and blue lights and soon he and John were in the back of a police car. They said nothing, not even looking at each other, but Sherlock could feel where their pinkies were touching on the seat between them. He moved his pinky on top of John's and pressed down slightly, in a reassuring, are you there kind of way. Sally turned around to say something to Sherlock that he did not catch. He did notice her eyes flick down and her face turn white. She did not say anything for the rest of the car ride.

They made a statement back at the station. Sherlock left out the Gavin Newton case. People kept giving him worried looks, and the officer who questioned him did not press him for details. Sherlock supposed he not being his usual self, but that was okay. He would have usually insulted them all thoroughly by know, but he could not summon the effort. Part of him felt like he was drowning. It was dark when he and John left the station; they walked back together, side by side, not speaking. Everything felt so far away to Sherlock, he was suffocating, but could not do anything about it. Nothing was real, nothing made sense. A thick fog had fallen over the city, muffling their footsteps. John caught his eye, the orange light from a street lamp sparkled in it like fairy dust. Sherlock was pushing John into an alley. Sherlock was pushing John against the wall. Sherlock was kissing John as if he was trying to suck the air from his lungs. Sherlock's hands were everywhere, touching, feeling, and trying to make sure that all of John was still there. John's hands were in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock was pushing John into the wall so hard, it was like he was trying to merge the atoms of their beings into one.

Sherlock felt moisture on his face. Sherlock pulled away and looked at a panting and disheveled John. A single drop of water was rolling down Sherlock's cheek. The London for thickened around them, muffling all sound and adding to the feeling he was underwater. He needed air. The orange glow of a street light created a warm ball that floated above the pavement. Sherlock walked into the glow and disappeared.

John stayed in the alley, leaning against the wall, for a long time.

When John got home the apartment was empty.

John awoke to his phone ringing. It was a text from Sherlock. Usual place, 1 hr - SH. John groaned and slowly got out of bed; dried blood form the night before cemented his bed sheets to his body. He had fallen into bed without another thought as soon as he had entered the apartment. It took him thirty minutes to wash all the dried blood off, put on a clean jumper and trousers, and walk to the café. He was early so he walked the park, across the street. John was alone, except for the birds. But he wasn't alone.

John heard footsteps and whipped around, his heart pounding in his chest. Sgt. Donovan was running towards him. John checked his watch; it was 6:45am. She was in exercise gear and her face was streaked with tears. Judging by her eyes, she had not slept the night before."It's you then," she spat. "You are his new girlfriend."

John was at a loss for words. Sally was acting strange. She was smiling and crying at the same time. He did not know what had gotten into her. "How is it, the sex, I mean, great right?"

John nodded, not sure if he should speak.

"Well enjoy it while it lasts, because one day he is going to let you down and you won't be able to look at him anymore," she focused on something John could not see, as if remembering. "He will always let you down, and you won't be able to touch him!" She was not smiling anymore, and the tears ran freely down her face in two streams. She drew in breaths with shuddering gasps. "I had a life before him. I normal life. And then I met him. I believed he was a god, that he could do anything. But he can't! He is only human. Less than human. He can't even feel. He doesn't have a heart!" She yelled the last bit and then paused as she took a deep breath as if to calm herself. She looked at John. "It hurts so much, you know, and I don't want it to hurt anymore. I don't want to feel. I wish it didn't hurt. There is this hole inside of me. But I can't because every time I look at him I see - I remember - and now he has you." She glared at John. "He needs to be alone, he deserves to be alone. I can sleep when I know he is as miserable as I am!"

She looked surprised at herself and staggered a little. "You seem nice; don't let him hurt you like I did. You could make him happy." She started crying again, sobbing hard and John moved to put him arm around her. "Don't touch me!" she screamed and slapped his hand away. She saw someone behind them and her face went pale, then green. In split second she was running again and soon she was around the corner and out of sight.

John turned to see Sherlock walking towards him. He was still by the café, but had obviously spotted him and Sally and was heading over to see what was going on. John turned back around to look at the place Sally had disappeared and did not move when Sherlock appeared at his side. They stood there, not knowing what to say to each other or if last night was real. John felt very tired. It felt like an eternity since they had last had breakfast together. He had been handcuffed to that pole for decades. Sherlock slipped his gloved hand into John's and gave it gentle squeeze. John leaned against Sherlock and they savored feeling of their bodies lightly pressed against each other through their coats.

"Are you hungry, John?" Sherlock asked. John nodded and they walked back to the café, still hand in hand. Sherlock seemed to be thinking, and before they got to the door.

"I need your help with something," Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked, curious.

"What are we going to do about Gavin Newton; this case is too big for the police."

John was surprised. "But you solved the case."

"But nothing changed. And I thought you would want justice for him family."

John smiled and put an arm around Sherlock's waist. "I am sure we will think of something."

Mycroft was sitting in his office, Marina on the couch texting as usual, when he heard a commotion outside.

"I know you are his brother, but you can't just barge in here like this with a bunch of boxes of scrap paper!" An angry voice was saying. "This is a restricted area!"

"This is not scrap paper!" Sherlock shot back. "This is valuable evidence, now let me through!"

Mycroft opened the door to find Sherlock and John holding a cardboard box each that was full of folders, papers, pictures, a diary, and a flash drive. Mycroft was intrigued. Sherlock never came to visit him at work. Marina even looked up from her phone to see what was going on. "To what do I owe this visit?" Mycroft asked, amused.

"I have a puzzle for you," said Sherlock, dropping his box with a loud thud on Mycroft's desk. John dropped the other and stood next to Sherlock. They looked like they were having fun.

Mycroft eyed the boxes. "A case you haven't solved?"

Sherlock looked insulted. John patted his arm. Marina raised an eyebrow. "I solved it ages ago. I thought you might want to have a go at it, it will tell you where your missing funds went."

Sherlock turned to go, but John did not move. "And please don't let us down," he said earnestly before following Sherlock out the building.

Mycroft smiled for a moment and then looked around sharply. Many of his employees were staring at him curiously. "Go through these boxes, find out what my brother wants us to find, we will have a meeting in two hours." Two people scurried in, collected the boxes and left. Mycroft shut the door and turned to Marina.

Marina smiled at Mycroft. "Do all Holmes men sleep with their assistants?"

"Only when they are gorgeous and brilliant like you," he replied fondly and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead.

Marina was thoughtful for a second for a second. "Why did Sherlock date Sergeant Donovan? She doesn't seem like anything special."

Mycroft looked at her knowingly. "There is more than her than meets the eye. At one point she was set to go to Oxford to study physics, she is a born mathematician. Quite a brilliant one, actually."

"What happened?" asked Marina. Policing seemed like a very odd choice for someone like that.

"Her mother was killed in a robbery. That's why she joined the force, she wanted to try and catch the killer and others like him." He paused remembering. "Unfortunately her mother's killer was never found, the trail went cold." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, pulled out a bag of crisps, and popped it open. "It is the only case Sherlock had ever failed to solve."

A.N.: I hoped you liked it and thank for reading! Would anyone be interested in a sequel, I am debating writing one.


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